


Velvet Waltz

by AttendezlaCreme



Series: Velvet Waltz-verse [1]
Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Genre: 1940s, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Ballroom Dancing, Blow Jobs, Car Chases, Complete, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Domination, Double Agents, Enemies to Lovers, Espionage, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, France (Country), Gestapo, Gun Violence, Hans Landa has an inconvenient awakening of conscience, Heist, Interrogation, Nazis, Occupied Paris, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Prison, Rewriting Inglourious Basterds, Seduction as Interrogation Technique, Sleeping with the enemy, Slow Burn, Trust Issues, World War II, moral reckoning, soul searching, tarantino, tasty tasty angst, will add tags as needed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2020-10-14 01:28:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 67,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20592395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AttendezlaCreme/pseuds/AttendezlaCreme
Summary: "We're enemies, Herr Landa. You keep forgetting that.""I haven't forgotten for a second."In occupied Paris, a Jewish-American spy's world unravels when Standartenführer Hans Landa takes a special interest in her.Novel-length romantic thriller about resistance, sabotage, tangled loyalties, and transformative love.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A quick note: This is not a pro-Nazi or even lukewarm-about-Nazis story. I detest Nazis and all forms of fascism and bigotry. I hope I've utilized Hans Landa in a way that leaves no ideological wiggle room, but if you have any concerns, feel free to shoot me a comment and we can discuss. Thanks for reading, and F**k Nazis.  
xoxo gossip girl

_“Your story’s so touching, it sounds just like a lie.” _– Nat King Cole

Prologue

[March 1944 – Paris]

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This was the best part. The delivery. Leaning into the wind, gears whirring, letting the momentum carry her further and further. Standing up on the pedals, her skirt whipping around and the late winter wind cutting right through her jacket, all speed and purpose until her face was flushed and her eyes ran and no one, not even God himself, could stop her. It felt like flight, like freedom, a rare sensation, indeed, these days.

Emboldened by speed, she sang that song that had been all over the radio before she left home:

_Straighten up and fly right _

_Straighten up and fly right_

_Straighten up and fly right_

_Cool down, papa, don’t you blow your top _

Greta Van Horn was a Swiss art student, New York educated, and now studying landscape painting in Paris. She worked at a café near 84 Avenue Foch, providing coffee and small talk to the SS officers headquartered there. She was 25, unmarried, and thought the Nazis were just swell.

Greta was simply a nice blonde Swiss girl who loved art and riding her bicycle very very fast. She wouldn’t dream of being born in Illinois to a Jewish father and Catholic mother, moving to New York after college, volunteering for the WACs, and being selected by the British SOE for espionage missions overseas in Nazi-occupied France. _Non, c’est ridicule. _

And sweet young Greta wouldn’t be caught dead smuggling clandestine tapes of SS meetings out of Paris to a pre-arranged drop off point from whence they would be smuggled north to the coast and across the channel to England. Pure baloney.

Her drop-off complete, and her calves beginning to hum, she pedaled back into town, gliding to a stop outside the Café l’Etoile, a dingy little bar with bad food and the cheapest drinks in the arondissement. Most importantly, there were never any Germans inside.

“Greta! Love of my wretched life!” shouted Alain as she staggered in. Alain was a slim and handsome young homosexual man from London, and could make the rattiest suit look like a magazine ad. He spun her around in a hug, and brought her to their table in the back.

Her comrades’ whoops and cheers made her blush a little. They had all been courageous that day, and successfully completed their share of Operation Canary. This was a celebration of that…and a going away party for George and Sibelle, who were returning to England to be married.

Everyone was there: Anne-Marie, the poet/courier, taking long drags on a hand-rolled cig while Edward, the philosopher (and main radio operator) rattled on about some Camus he’d just read. Bunny, the firecracker whose entire job was to seduce secrets out of the more gullible Gestapo, was telling some filthy story about her latest escapade. Alain’s boyfriend, Philippe, the French Resistance go-between, kissed each of Greta’s cheeks and beckoned the entire bench to scoot down for her.

Greta was the eldest of the bunch, the most recent recruit, and the only American...as far as she knew. The recruiters had been impressed by her knack for languages and accents. Yet, she had been placed in the café to eavesdrop, while her younger comrades got far more dangerous assignments. She had hoped to move up to courier permanently, but her commander turned her down.

Round after round of drinks appeared. Who exactly was going to pay for these? Greta thought, nursing a single ale. And they were getting dangerously close to curfew, she noticed. Maybe an hour from sundown. As she often did, in her position as the eldest, she decided to stay sober for her comrades’ sake.

The strains of a Marlene Dietrich song suddenly cut through the conversation. Lise, at 20 the baby of the group, stood up on the bench to sing along. What she lacked in god-given talent, she made up for with charisma, and most of the group cheered her on.

Alain scooted in closer to Greta and whispered, “So what’s next for you, _mon chou?”_

Greta shrugged. “I dunno. I’m still at the café.”

“Anything good?” he pressed.

“Not yet. They don’t exactly go there to talk military movements. It’s mostly gossip, who’s screwing who. Those SS fuckers are real horndogs…what about you?”

“You mean, speaking of horndogs?” Alain tapped his cigarette ash into the nearest tray and sighed dramatically. “Might go home and see my nan, might not.” This was sarcasm. His family had disowned him years ago.

“I’m sure they’ll find something for you to do,” Greta nearly shouted over Lise’s trilling soprano. “Shit, get into radio. They always need more of those.”

“That’d be a hell of a promotion,” Alain chuckled. Still, he was working at the Gestapo headquarters. Why complain about washing dishes when you got to be _right in the middle _of the action? Making a real difference in the war? Not pouring coffee and feigning interest in Standartenführer Landa’s latest conquests.

She wished she could remember what they said next. She wished she could remember all of her comrades exactly as they were in that afterglow, laughing and drinking and singing, before Lise suddenly pointed and screamed. Before Greta’s eyes landed on the hissing grenade.

The blast registered as heat. An overpowering roar of flames that threw her so hard, so fast, she felt no immediate pain, only the sensation of her tongue flopping pointlessly in her mouth as she was thrown backward. A heavy blow. Then nothing.


	2. Lost and Found

She came to in total darkness, and her first panicked thought was of missing curfew. Her second thought was the excruciating pain in her back and leg. Then, she realized she couldn’t move her leg, because it was under rubble. She was trapped.

Shit.

The moon was full. She marveled at how brightly it illuminated the blown-out café, then registered that it was coming in through the ceiling. Through the piece of the ceiling that now pinned her back half to the floor.

The waitress who had brought all those rounds to their table lay facedown a few yards away, blood pooled around her torso. Greta’s heart clenched.

But what of her comrades? She couldn’t see much from where she was but she didn’t see any other bodies.

“H…hello?” she ventured weakly. “Anyone there?” No answer.

There was no freeing her legs. And no use wasting energy on it when she might be stuck here for a long time. Just my damn luck, she thought. The only Jewish member, and I’m practically being served to the Gestapo on a platter. Her thoughts drifted to the little capsule tucked in a pocket she’d sewn into her bra. The L-pill, that every agent carried in case of capture. Cyanide.

She had no intention of dying that night, but she also had zero intention of being tortured by Nazis.

What were the chances SOE heard of the blast in time and sent their ops first? She had no choice but to wait and see.

It wasn’t a long wait before the sound of tires on cobblestones turned her head back to the blown out wall. Only German officers were allowed to drive after dark. Or had SOE beat them to the punch?

Ah, no. They were definitely speaking German. Oh shit. Oh god. This is it. Captured. Here we go. She gave another cursory attempt at wriggling free. No dice.

The sweeping beam of a flashlight announced the officers’ arrival, and Greta went limp. What else was there to do?

“Collect evidence, anything we can use,” came a stern voice in Austrian-accented German, which seemed to belong to a trench-coated figure. She didn’t recognize him from her café. But the way his men scurried to obey him, he must be important.

The figure approached the waitress, and nudged her corpse with the toe of his boot. “Pity. So young.” Greta was next. She quickly shut her eyes and went as limp as possible as his boots approached.

“Ooh, what have we here?” He sounded like a child on Christmas morning. She waited for the toe of the boot, but it didn’t come.

The flashlight beam directly on her face did. And she cringed. Son of a bitch.

A little gasp of delight. “A survivor!” He snapped his fingers, and yet more boots came running. Well, shit, might as well look her captor in the eye.

She knew immediately from the oak leaves on his collar and the death’s head on his cap that her fate was in the hands of a Standartenführer of the SS. His eyes glittered.

An animal scream tore through her windpipe and, strangled by sheer willpower, escaped her lips as a pitiful whimper. So much for bravery.

He stooped and turned her head with a leather gloved hand, then traced a line in the air in front of her eyes. It made her dizzy to follow it. “Concussion,” the officer clucked. His men now surrounded him, like vultures eyeballing a meal.

“Lift it,” the man commanded and the SS officers carefully hoisted the piece of ceiling from her battered legs. With lightning speed, her legs were free, she was rolled onto her stomach, her hands were cuffed behind her back, then the Standartenführer scooped her up in his arms, and started to carry her outside.

Now was her chance. She wrenched her body one way, then the other, flopping like a fish out of water. Bit his arm but only got a mouthful of leather. The officer responded by squeezing her closer to his torso.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered to her, boots crunching frost in a steady rhythm. “Save your strength.”

A few curt words to his driver, and she was in the backseat of the officer’s sleek black Mercedes. The leather seat was cold and she suddenly aware of how stiff and painful her entire body was as she was laid against the opposite door. Her captor removed his leather gloves and began to manipulate her legs, feeling from the ankles up. She sucked through her teeth at each tender spot.

“Hmm,” the officer muttered. “Bruised but not broken.”

“At least introduce yourself before copping a feel,” she snarled.

He paused. “Oh, forgive me. I get so caught up in the details. I am Colonel Hans Landa of the SS.”

He presented a hand, as if to shake hers. She stared, still cuffed.

“Ah, yes. And what might your name be?”

She glared. Landa nodded, plunged his hand right into the pocket of her coat and fished out her wallet. That bastard!

“Greta Van Horn,” he said, squinting at her ID papers. “Hmmph. Unlikely. Twenty-five? Swiss?”

“Yes.”

The car began to move. She tried to sit up but immediately recoiled in pain.

Landa placed a firm hand on her knee. “Nothing to fear, Fraulein. We’re just going somewhere to have a little talk. I know you have so much to tell me.” Did he have to smile at her like that?

If they keep me cuffed, she thought in the somewhat slurred manner of the concussed, I can’t take my pill. They’re going to torture me. They’ll torture everything out of me and leave me to rot in a ditch. She thought of her comrades, her creaky little bed that she would never sleep in again. She thought of the extra-chewy bagels she used to walk over the Brooklyn Bridge for on weekends, smoked salmon and lox. Her small and boring life in New York, the pride she felt after completing her training. Her beloved Manhattan skyline shrinking as the naval ship carried her away, as it turned out, forever. She felt…relatively okay for someone about to be tortured to death.

And still Landa’s hand rested on her leg. She kicked it away.


	3. The Interrogation

“Do you mind if I smoke?”

Greta, still handcuffed, squinted at Landa through the glare of the overhead lamp, and shook her head.

She watched him pack his meerschaum pipe with nimble fingers. He was in no rush, apparently. Behind him, she caught a glimpse of herself in what was surely a two-way mirror. She looked, appropriately, like hell.

So this was an SS interrogation. She imagined the iron gates of her mind swinging closed, and her sweet, dumb cover identity taking over. Like a lobotomy.

“Well, then,” Landa finally began. “Name?”

“Greta Van Horn,” she dutifully replied.

Landa frowned. “Born?”

“1918, in Luc-“

“STOP! STOP AT ONCE!” Landa shouted so fiercely she jumped. “No more of this desecration! You are not Swiss. This accent is as “Swiss” as Mickey Mouse. It is, frankly, very offensive.”

“But I”--

“None of the music of the Alps.” He sniffed with contempt. “More _goat_ than alphorn.”

A pause.

“Pardonez moi--” she tried.

“You’re an American, yes?” Landa said in flawless English. “We’ll continue in English. Is that acceptable to you?”

She felt her years of study, those grueling night courses in French and German, evaporate into nothing. Ditto her cover. She could not have felt more naked if she were stripped and spread-eagled.

Landa leaned in. “What is that…sound, anyway? Those flat vowels. Like the terrain. Midwest? …Illi-noys?”

She focused harder than she ever had in her life.

He chuckled and took another puff on his pipe. “I’m just teasing. I know it’s Illi-noy.”

Did he know where she was born? Or a lucky guess?

His eyes were studying her face. Memorizing it. “Not Greta. You’re not a Greta. Perhaps…Sarah. Or Rachel.”

Her stomach turned to ice.

Landa stood, strode around the table, and observed her face from the side. Her nose. She’d always been told she didn’t “look” Jewish, but that nose of hers was as loud as a brass band. He paused, tilted his head. “Hannah? Am I getting warm?”

“Ice cold.”

“No matter,” he continued, circling the table in the other direction. “What I’m most curious about, however, is your unmarried status.”

She couldn’t believe what she heard. “Excuse me?”

“It’s a fair question. How does a lovely girl like yourself end up unwed and undercover in a foreign country?”

“I’m not….it’s not a priority for me right now.”

Landa stopped. “But it was, at one time.”

“No. I put my career first.”

“Until you met him.”

She was visibly shaking. “You know nothing about my life.”

The Standartenführer zeroed in for the kill. “You were so sure of him, weren’t you? And he hurt you. Deeply. Humiliated you. Left you for another woman. Left you to clean up the mess. You must’ve felt so alone. So abandoned.”

She felt like she was going to be ill. He had opened up her up right there on the table, like a dissection. And every hurt and shame was on hideous display.

Landa stood behind her and took her shoulders in his steady hands. “You saw your dreams dissolve. So it was easy to run away, risk your life, fight a war on the other side of the world. It all makes sense now.”

Tears rapidly filled her eyes, and of course, he noticed. Congrats, she thought. You broke me. You goddamned asshole.

“I have so much more than that,” she stammered. “Than him.”

“Smart girl like you?” he said, pulling his handkerchief from the pocket of his grey SS uniform. “I don’t doubt it.”

He stooped and began to gently dab at her tear-dampened cheek with the handkerchief. The absurd tenderness of the gesture undid her.

“I swear I’m good at this,” she sniffled.

“You’re doing wonderfully.” Landa held the handkerchief to her nose. “Blow.”

She gave a half-hearted honk. “Please just break my kneecaps, Standartenführer. At least I was trained for that.”

He waved this away. 

“I don’t mean to inflict further distress, but I must ask you,” Landa ventured, returning to his seat. “Your comrades at the café.”

She tried to remain stoic. “What comrades?”

His steely eyes bore into hers from a “don’t play this game” angle. “None of your comrades were found at the scene.”

He must have registered her immediate relief.

“It’s very bizarre. Why did none of them rescue you?”

This thought genuinely had not occurred to her yet. “They must’ve ran, I’m sure they just didn’t see me…”

“I saw you immediately from the doorway,” Landa corrected.

Her head spun. “No, no, they wouldn’t abandon me. They’re smart. They know what they’re doing.”

Landa put up his hands. “I was only making an observation.”

“You can’t turn me against my own,” she spat. But the damage was done, and her heart was in freefall.

A long, tense silence followed while she imagined her fellow agents calling her house, cycling around Paris looking for her, reaching out across resistance networks, leaving notes at their usual dead drops only she could decipher…or they weren’t. But surely they were.

Smoke from Landa’s frankly ridiculous pipe curled ominously towards the lamp.

“Can I ask you a question?” she finally said.

Landa gave a tight-lipped smile. “What would you like to know?”

“Germany invaded your country. They were the enemy of your people. Why did you join them?”

He set his pipe on the table very slowly. “They offered me a job. A good job, tailored to my skill set.”

“Yeah, hunting Jews. Killing innocent people. Some job.”

“I’m a detective,” he warned. “And the crucial difference between us, Fraulein, is that I like to be on the winning team.”

“What if you chose the wrong side?” she pushed, exhilarated by her own ballsiness.

“I will cross that bridge if I come to it,” he said, standing. “But I am quite good at winning. And even better at taking down enemies of the state who think they're clever."

A solid 10 seconds of eye contact before Landa signaled the guards.

“What happens now?” she asked as steadily as she could.

“You’re our prisoner,” Landa whispered, leaning in close. “Now, go to your room and think about what you’ve done.”

His eyes never left hers as the guards roughly pulled her from the chair and dragged her out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm using Landa's proper rank, Standartenführer, rather than the anglicized "Colonel" (except where a character may not know the correct term. As an agent, "Greta" would be familiar with the various ranks.)


	4. The Hunter

Lipstick-smeared cigarettes. A scrawled-on bar napkin. A crusted fork. A dark curly hair. And piles and piles of reports, mostly worthless.

Vexingly, they didn’t know who had thrown the grenade. No action had been planned that night. Not a single Gestapo unit took responsibility. Which meant someone on their side had exclusive intel, and was withholding.

Hans Landa steepled his fingers. The constellation of evidence scattered across his desk had been painstakingly gathered by his best men. The intelligence reports had been extracted, some violently, from prisoners across France and the Vichy. Yes, there was useful information about Resistance operations, the kind of intel that, typically, he would act on right away. But there was precious little about her.

_Her._

At least now he knew her real name.

“Sylvia,” he said out loud in his plush office, enjoying the delicate consonants on his tongue. “Syl-vi-a.”

Born an hour west of Chicago, last known address some dingy little hole on the Lower East Side. He tried to imagine the wild-eyed, feral creature he’d wrestled into his car that night typing in some New York office block.

She was, in fact, Jewish. On her father’s side, at least. Surnames didn’t lie.

A week had now passed. He had made multiple excuses to visit the sixth floor prison wing just to stroll by her cell. She glared at him from the shadows like a caged animal.

He should not have broken her down that night, he now realized. It was so easy for him to crack people open that he sometimes did it carelessly. It would be hard work to gain her trust now. And he was running out of time. Although his authority was untouchable, the Gestapo upstairs were antsy to free up space for more prisoners. Hans knew if she were sent to Drancy or some other internment camp it would be impossible to find her again.

He needed insight. Exactly one of these reports offered a promising, and convenient, lead. And all he had to do was take a stroll down the avenue, to the cafeteria at Gestapo headquarters.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

One skill had served Sylvia well all her life, and especially in her life as an agent: her ability to sleep anywhere. The exhaustion of the previous 24 hours knocked her out for most of the next day. Her cell was dank and cold, and the flimsy bunk would leave bruises on her hips by day 3, but she had been trained to expect much worse.

The guards didn’t bother her much. She was given water and stale bread, but generally left alone. She could sometimes whisper at the bars with the neighboring cell for ten minutes before anyone came to yell at them.

No news from her unit. She assumed no news was good news.

She found if she stood on the little bunk, she could peek through the tiny window at the top of the wall and see across the courtyard, and into an adjacent building. Not well enough to tell what was going on, but it was something.

Prisoners before her had carved messages into the decaying plaster. One right above her bunk read: “JAMAIS PARLER”…”never talk.” She stared at it for hours, and waited for the _real _interrogation that was sure to come.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Landa slurped the dregs of his coffee, and brought the little cup and saucer to the dishwashers’ window at the back of the cafeteria.

“Pardon,” he called in immaculate French. “May I speak with Alain Fournier, please?”

A tall young man in a grungy apron appeared at the window. He looked Landa up and down. “I am Alain.”

“I don’t mean to distract you from your duties, but I wondered if we might have a little chat?” Landa said pleasantly.

Alain opened the door to the kitchen, several feet away. “Right this way, Standartenführer.”

He led the officer through the busy kitchen to the dishwashing station, where Landa flipped a bucket and sat before being asked. Alain perched on the edge of the basin, one leg swinging nonchalantly.

“What can I do for you, Oberst?” the young man ventured.

“Mr. Fournier, I’m afraid the purpose of my visit is…mm. I am led to believe you know a woman named Sylvia Leventhal.”

“Afraid you’re mistaken, sir. I don’t know a Sylvia.”

Landa smiled pleasantly. “Perhaps you know her better as Greta.”

Alain’s leg stopped swinging.

“No, sir, doesn’t ring a bell.”

Landa was not in the mood. “Young man, we arrested her last week. She has been in my custody since we found her in the cafe. She was trapped under a piece of the ceiling while the rest of you escaped. But I see you were unharmed.”

The young man blinked once, as he processed this new information.

“I’m not going to arrest you,” Landa finally said. “That’s not why I’m here. Please, what can you tell me about Sylvia?”

“First of all,” Alain said with a slight quaver in his voice. “I didn’t know her name was Sylvia. Second, if she’s in your custody, you’re the one I feel sorry for.”

“She is a most unusual woman.”

“Yes, she is.”

A pause while another soldier dropped off dishes under the window. After they had left, Landa continued.

“I have no intentions of harming her, Mr. Fournier. Nothing you tell me will be used against her, or any of your operation. I merely find her…interesting.”

Alain swallowed. “I’m glad to hear that. Sylvia is pretty interesting. But I don’t think you’re her type.”

Landa frowned. "Explain, please."

"You know her full name, it's fairly obvious."

Alain stood, and began to untie the apron.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Well, Standartenführer,” he chirped. “Seems that I don’t work here anymore.”

“Yes, Mr. Fournier, I don’t believe you do.” Landa stood. “But the SS could always use young men of your intelligence. We offer a competitive pay rate.”

“That’s very generous of you, Herr Landa, but my dance card is full.”

He set the apron on the counter, then turned back to Landa. “You swear on your life you won’t hurt her?”

Landa raised his hand solemnly. “I swear on my life and all I hold dear.”

Alain nodded, and backed slowly away. Landa watched from the dishwashing window as a known enemy agent walked free.

_What was this girl doing to him?_

As he walked back to 84 Avenue Foch, a plan took shape in his mind, murky, but thrilling. Unorthodox, perhaps. And certainly stretching the rules if not outright breaking them. But she was a special case.

An interrogation of a different sort. Long-form. Teasing out her secrets. Gaining her trust, wearing her down with his charm. Hans had no shortage of that, as his long trail of conquests proved. No woman had ever resisted him for long. Even a fierce half-Jew from America would succumb. He smiled at the thought of the proud resistance fighter willingly coming to his bed. Whimpering his name. Wanting him. The same mouth that left tooth marks in the sleeve of his leather coat that night would beg him for permission to come. Mm. Exquisite.

The ghost of a thought flickered at the edge of this fantasy – what to do with her after? He pushed it away for later, and asked the elevator bellhop for the sixth floor.


	5. Off-Premises

It was unusual but not unheard of, officers taking women prisoners off-premises for their own enjoyment. Most in the Party didn’t stoop to befouling themselves with undesirable races, but of course, it happened. Especially with the blonder, prettier ones. Which Sylvia certainly was.

The desk officer shot him a knowing glance, but quickly complied with his superior’s command, sending two guards to fetch the young woman. Whether he judged Landa or not was irrelevant; none would dare challenge a Standartenführer.

It took longer than expected to bring her back, and when the guards returned, dragging her between them, her hair was wild, and both guards sweaty and breathing heavily with the effort of fighting her. Hands cuffed and mouth gagged, her eyes were that of an animal ready to kill, but she was trembling with fear. He noticed she had lost a significant amount of weight, and dark circles had carved deep beneath her eyes.

An unfamiliar emotion swelled within him, warm and yearning; he observed this feeling with detached interest as the guards bundled her into his Mercedes-Benz.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Number one: open the door and roll out.

Number two: get the cuffs over her head and strangle Landa with them.

Number three: bite down on his jugular? Very hard??

Yeah, none of those options looked good. And the cuffs were not coming off.

Sylvia worked the gag down to her neck in minutes. But she kept her mouth shut and focused on memorizing their route as they wound steadily south through Paris. They clearly weren’t going to any of the Gestapo or SS buildings on Avenue Foch, and her mental map was sketchy in this part of town. Her legs still hurt from the blast, but they worked, and she figured she could walk at least a mile in her current condition.

To her horror, they seemed to heading out of Paris entirely.

She scanned the rapidly passing houses for identifiers…and clocked a few Nazi flags hung from the eaves. Right, she thought. You damn fool. Any one of these families could be sympathetic to the Germans. Even if she got out of the vehicle, approaching a strangers’ house in cuffs and a prison gown would be a hell of a gamble.

Sylvia refused to dwell on the fact that she was most likely about to die. Very painfully, absolutely humiliated at the hands of one of the SS’s cruelest officers. She would just have to escape. She would be goddamned if this smug creep had his way with her.

Suddenly, he spoke, and all her focus shifted to translation.

“Where am I taking you, soldier?”

“Rolf Becker,” the younger man in the passenger seat replied breathlessly. “May I just say, what an honor it is to ride with you, Standartenführer—“

“How do you find the outskirts of Paris?” Landa diffused.

“My wife prefers the city but we are quite happy. The air is fresher here.”

Indeed, houses had become fewer and farther between, and now expanses of fields rolled past. Sylvia realized it was probably too late to walk back to the city.

More small talk. The weather has been rather cold lately. Rolf has two daughters, and one just turned 6.

Rolf’s eyes met hers in the rearview, and then for one horrific moment, both Nazis were observing her in the mirror.

“Transporting a prisoner, eh?” the younger officer whispered, but plenty loud enough for her to hear.

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“You chose a pretty one,” Rolf snickered.

A deadly silence.

“Forgive me, I wasn’t questioning—“

“You had better not be, Hermann.” The catch-all name for a man beneath you. Like a slap in the face.

Rolf didn’t speak again for the rest of the drive.

Sylvia stared hard at the now open countryside, avoiding the rearview mirror. She felt Landa’s eyes on her, burning.

Somehow, she couldn’t imagine him taking a woman by force. She was well aware of his reputation as a seducer, but those rumors had never included assault.

What if I pretend to enjoy it, she thought. Then the tiniest, decaying echo in the dark said, _What if I actually do. _

She redirected this notion. Maybe this was her chance to prove herself to command, and move up in the ranks. Spending one-on-one time with a Standartenführer? She imagined their faces when she turned up at HQ with a stack of exclusive intel from a high-ranking officer’s _home._ Information like that could turn the tide of the entire war. She could make history.

All she had to do was play the role of a Nazi’s whore. Just for a little while.

She shuddered a little remembering his hands on her shoulders in the interrogation room. How gently he had dried her tears. Perhaps he would not be such a monster…to her.

Then the little car was slowing in front of a quaint cottage. Rolf exited, and saluted a little too enthusiastically. Then they pulled away, and she was completely alone with Hans Landa for the first time.

They approached a dense wood, driving deeper and deeper until the road became dirt and she had to grip the door to avoid bouncing off the seat.

They slowed to a stop. Her heart was vibrating. Run, she thought. If he uncuffs you, knock him over and RUN.

Landa got out of the car, circled around to the trunk, and took a heavy-looking cloth bag out of it. Gripped by bone-deep animal fear, she began to futz pathetically with the cuffs again. Nope.

Then – the door opened and Landa slid into the backseat. She shrank against the door.

He smiled warmly. “So pleased to see you again, _Sylvia Leventhal_.”

She felt every ounce of color drain from her face. So he knew.

“We need to get away from the road, anyone could see us here.” He beckoned her out of the vehicle and she had no choice but to obey.

With one hand at her back, Landa guided her deeper into the birch wood. Sunlight occasionally poked through the dense canopy, and the cold March wind cut right through her threadbare prison gown. She tried to orient herself by the angle of the sun but found it impossible to determine.

So this was what was happening. A quick, ugly screw in the woods. Not even the dignity of a bed.

When they came upon a clearing, Landa left her side and spread a large grey blanket on the ground. Great, she thought. Facedown in damp wool. At least the sun shone through here, and wildflowers bloomed in the grass. It was absurdly beautiful. Not the worst place to die.

He approached her with his keys. “Would you like to be uncuffed, Sylvia?”

She nodded.

He stood very, very close to her, and with a hand at her chin, tipped her face up to his. She could feel his breath on her skin. “You must understand one thing, and I cannot uncuff you until you do.” He smelled of aftershave, tobacco. “You _must not run_. You are a prisoner of the state. You are only safe in my custody. Should you attempt to escape, any one of these neighboring landowners would happily turn you in for a cash reward. I may not be able to rescue you a second time.” He leaned down even closer. “That is, if they don’t shoot you on sight. If you wish to live, you must remain at my side, under my protection. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she lied.

Hans maintained eye contact a moment longer, as if searching for something. Satisfied, he let her head drop, and removed the cuffs. Sylvia slowly sank to the blanket as blood rushed back into her arms.

“Do you know what ‘SS’ stands for, Fraulein?” Hans said as he busied himself with the bag.

“Schutzstaffel,” she replied, massaging the feeling back into her arms.

He clucked in surprise. “Very good! And the meaning?”

“Protection…squadron?”

“Precisely.”

Yeah, but the point is to protect the German people FROM me, not the other way – and she lost this trail of thought entirely as she looked up and beheld the full spread, complete with bread, a generous wedge of brie, jam, butter, and even a bottle of what appeared to be sherry.

Well, goddamn. He packed a picnic.

Landa giggled as he cut a thick slice of baguette. “My dear girl, you must be starving.”

“Not your girl,” she muttered but then he handed her the bread with a fat smear of brie, and wow, was she hungry. But she wasn’t stupid.

“You try it first.”

Hans raised an eyebrow. “Are you aware of what I’ve just done for you? I saved your life.”

Sylvia stared.

“You were to be sent to Drancy tonight. Or were you not told?”

She shook her head.

He began to prepare a slice for himself. “I was told this morning that you were to be sent to Drancy internment camp, and from there to a labor camp. But I decided to step in, and divert the course of fate. Voila, here you are, alive, and soon to be well. Honestly, I’m not sure why I saved you. A little whim of mine. Perhaps I’m sentimental when it comes to lovely young women.” He took a big bite, and chewed with relish. 

“I don’t understand what the hell is going on,” she replied, still clutching the uneaten bread.

“Stay with me, and you will survive the war,” Landa said through a mouthful of baguette. “But please, eat.”

Once she took a bite she found she couldn’t stop. After the brie, she had another slice with currant jam, which she polished off in seconds, chewing in that frantic rhythm of a creature unsure if they would eat again. Landa wordlessly handed her another slice.

After number three, she began to feel terribly sleepy. So much bread was overwhelming after two weeks on stale crusts. She slumped against one arm in an attempt to stay upright.

Landa saw she was fading, packed up, and with the blanket tossed over one arm, led her back to the car.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The house was charming enough, situated on the crest of a hill with a stunning view of the farmland below. It seemed too modest for a man of Landa’s rank. But inside, it was downright cozy.

Sylvia stood awkwardly while Landa removed his trench, and hung his cap – with that hideous death’s head insignia – on a peg in the vestibule. She noticed he did not remove his dagger or pistol. Fair enough.

From the living room, she could see the small dining room, a doorway to the kitchen, and wooden stairs. There couldn’t be more than two bedrooms up there, and they were right next to each other.

_She wouldn’t be able to hide from him. _

“Make yourself at home. I'll be in my study until dinner,” Landa said brightly, and went upstairs.

Alright then, she thought. There are two doors, front and back, both with deadbolts, back also has a latch. Landa’s keys are in his uniform pocket. There’s a massive butcher block full of knives on the counter. That sculpted bust of…whoever could easily knock a man out. From the sound of Landa’s voice drifting down the stairwell, he has a telephone in his room. Eventually, he’ll have to take that pistol off. And the nearest neighbors are well out of earshot.

Yes, a nice, relaxing weekend in the country would do nicely.


	6. A Weekend in the Country

Soaking in the clawfoot tub of Landa’s country house, up to her ears in steamy water, Sylvia felt rejuvenated, glamorous, a little sexy, and extremely guilty.

Who was she to enjoy bath salts when her people suffered all across Europe? When the rest of France made do on starvation rations? When her fellow operatives, who had been through so much already, must be so worried about her??

Sylvia and Alain were as close to “best friends” as you could be without knowing each other’s birth names. They had trained together in London, completed their first low-level reconnaissance mission together, and had a system for keeping in touch when meeting in person was too risky: there was a dead drop in a brick wall near both of their cover workplaces. Sylvia would leave a toffee wrapper, and Alain a gum wrapper, to say, “I’m alive, I’m still in Paris, and I’m okay enough to buy (or steal) sweets.” For the first time since entering the field, she had no means to drop a wrapper.

But then again…even if she could leave a wrapper right now, was she really 'okay'?

The strains of German polka floated up through the floorboards, from Landa’s living room radio. Her training had prepared her for many things, but somehow she missed the part about intimate dinners with the SS officer tasked with wiping your own people from the map.

After several deep breaths, Sylvia pulled the plug.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She kept him waiting for nearly 15 minutes. She heard his fingers drumming impatiently as she finally descended the stairs.

The drumming stopped at once. She had found a simple blue housedress in her room closet, much too small for her and unbuttoned quite a ways down to accommodate her bust. She had to hike the skirt to comfortably sit down.

Hans stared at her for several minutes, then broke the silence. “I see you’ve been exploring.”

“I’m not putting that prison gown back on.”

“Understandable. Give me your measurements, and I’ll have some new things made for you.”

Marta, Landa’s cook and housekeeper, burst in at that moment with the first course, a green salad. She avoided Sylvia’s eyes entirely and swished back out as quickly as she came. Sylvia suddenly grasped how many former conquests must’ve sat in that chair before her.

Her stomach roiling, she stabbed at the salad.

“Is your room to your satisfaction?” Hans ventured.

She stared resolutely downward. “Yes.”

Truth was, out of uniform, she suddenly understood. She had always figured the rumors were exaggerations. How could one middle-aged (albeit rather powerful) officer have bedded half the stars of German cinema, multiple princesses, heiresses, and radio stars? But with the Nazi insignia stripped away, he was devilishly handsome, and damn, did he know it.

“I’m told that bed is quite comfortable. Never slept in it myself. I took the room with a study, you see, I have so much paperwork to keep up with, I must bring it home sometimes,” he chuckled.

Sylvia did not.

Marta swept through once again, replacing the first course with the main, wienerschnitzel with potatoes.

When Marta had left again, he leaned over the table conspiratorially. “It’s veal, not pork.”

Sylvia finally flicked her eyes upward. “How thoughtful of you.”

And stabbed the meat so hard Landa jumped.

She devoured the schnitzel. It was her first truly filling hot meal in weeks and any guilt could wait. Landa watched her with appreciation.

“I have always liked a woman with an appetite.”

“Your men starved me,” she spat between bites.

“My men? No,” he countered, elegantly carving another bite from his schnitzel. “My men are all Sicherheitstdienst, SD. Intelligence, et cetera. Not directly involved with the prison. But I am sorry they didn’t feed you well.”

She had nothing to say to that. Sorry? Like hell.

A few minutes passed, with the clinking of silverware on china.

“Sylvia,” Hans finally said. “I would be a fool to ask for your trust. However, seeing as we may be together for some time, I”—

“Yes, how long will we be ‘together’?” she demanded.

“That depends on many factors. Weeks, months, perhaps years. Until the Reich falls, the Führer changes his mind, the French drive us out, or it’s otherwise safe to turn a Jewish-American conspirator loose in the streets.”

She squinted. “Safe for whom?”

“You, of course.” Hans chewed his last bite of schnitzel and laid down his silverware.

Sylvia’s head was beginning to hurt.

“Ooh, wait until you see what Marta made for dessert!” Hans diverted. Almost on cue, Marta cleared their dishes, and returned with two thick slices of dense chocolate cake.

“Sachertorte!” He went for it with gusto.

She picked at her slice. It was pretty damn good, but her tolerance for rich desserts had suffered in wartime.

Returning his napkin to the table, Landa stood. His charisma was so powerful, one really couldn’t help but look at him. “Join me on the porch momentarily.” He flashed her one of his wry smiles, and left the table.

Sylvia found sitting alone with her conflicting emotions wasn’t much better than sitting with Landa. She followed him outside to the back porch.

The view was astonishing. The sun had just set, and lights were beginning to twinkle in the valley below. The lowing of cattle drifted up on the breeze, and a few stars were already visible. Sylvia gasped involuntarily.

“Not a bad place to ‘get away from it all’, as you Americans say, eh?” Hans smiled and offered her a cigarette. Why not, she figured, accepting.

They smoked in reverent silence as the earth rolled away from the sun.

“Is it all farmers down there?” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Some farmers, a lot of German soldiers. You see, I was not the first to come here looking for a country house. Paris is lovely, but Germans are the sort who crave open air.” He gestured to a point of light not far away. “Goebbels bought that one to the left. Over there, von Arent. Viktor Lutze bought that one but he rarely uses it, pity. Himmler’s niece and her husband just moved into that one just there, it used to be a dairy farm. Hard to imagine Elsa Himmler on a wooden stool milking a cow!” he guffawed.

She mustered a chuckle, but she got the message loud and clear.

Still, if he was feeling chatty, maybe she could squeeze more info out of him.

“This is pretty high up. Did you take this house because you miss the Alps?”

“There is nowhere like the Alps,” he said, stubbing out his cigarette. “But yes, here I have the illusion of height.”

“I’ve never been.”

“Well, then, we must go someday, Fraulein.”

His tone unsettled her. She excused herself back into the house, and paused in the kitchen.

The knives.

A glance back towards the porch. Hans had fully reclined in the chair, one foot propped on his knee.

She had a little training with knives. Not much. She knew you had to be very close to someone to successfully stab them. She also knew if that person were more experienced than you, they could take your knife and kill YOU first.

She slowly pulled a butcher knife from the wooden block, tested the sharpness of the blade. Eventually Landa would fall asleep. Could she kill him? Did she have what it took to kill a man? How many lives would be saved if she did?

Her hands were shaking so badly she could hardly slot the knife back into place. She braced herself against the counter.

“Sylvia.”

She jumped a little but covered it. “I’m feeling dizzy, Herr Landa. I think I should go to bed early.”

“Yes, you need to sleep and regain your strength.” His hand settled on her shoulder, and squeezed. “I hope you will be very content here, Fraulein.” Then he turned and headed up the stairs.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She pushed most of the little bedroom’s furniture against her door that night. Just in case Hans had any ideas. But apparently, he didn’t.

To Sylvia’s relief, he was mostly absorbed in the newspaper at breakfast, asking only the cursory, “How did you sleep?” and commenting on the strength of Marta’s coffee.

Yes!! Real coffee!! Sylvia had taken it for granted while she worked at the Soldatenkaffee on Avenue Foch, but the vast majority of Parisians had done without for years.

She realized with a start that she would never work at the Soldatenkaffee again.

After breakfast, Hans took the newspaper to the living room, where warm sunlight streamed through the east-facing windows. Sylvia read each section as Hans finished it. It was a German paper, and every headline and picture turned her stomach. But it was something.

She scanned for any news of raids or arrests, and found nothing concerning her unit.

By lunchtime, she was getting antsy.

After lunch, Hans went upstairs to his study to get work done. Sylvia opened every book on the shelf and tested each floorboard, to no avail.

By dinner, she was so stir-crazy she was ready to scream.

“So when do I find out what you’re planning to do to me?” she fired across that night’s main dish of boiled veal.

“Must I plan something to do with you?” he teased, with that obscene smirk.

“I’m a prisoner in your house!”

“And the state had already taken you prisoner in a prison, which would you prefer?”

“I just,” she stammered, all the frustration threatening to surface. “I need to know…what will happen to me. Just tell me.”

Hans shrugged. “My dear girl, there is nothing to tell.”

“Bullshit.”

He wasn’t so fond of her dirty mouth. “Fraulein, not everyone is a spy on a secret mission. Every now and then, someone may tell you the truth.”

“It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes any sense. I’m vermin to you! You want me dead!”

Hans paused for a moment before proceeding. “You are a special case, Fraulein.”

“I’m not special,” she retorted. “I’m Jewish. You’re a Nazi. There’s nothing to negotiate here.”

He avoided her eyes.

“Am I to be your whore then? Some kind of sick house pet? Or will you just shoot me when you get whatever intel you want?”

“Sylvia,” he warned. “I’ve taken you in at great risk to myself. Don’t forget that.”

She stood. “And your job is taking the lives of my people. I won’t forget that, either.”

With Hans’ eyes burning at her back, Sylvia ascended the stairs and shut her door.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After the scene she had made, Sylvia wasn’t about to leave her room until she was sure Hans was asleep. After his door had been closed for an hour, she figured the coast was clear to get ready for bed.

She washed her face, brushed her teeth, combed out her dark blonde hair, and wondered who that tired old hag in the mirror could be. With an audible sigh, she turned out the light and opened the bathroom door –

\-- to find Hans waiting on the landing.

She tried to slip past him but his outstretched arm stopped her in her tracks.

“Sylvia…please. Look at me.”

Something in his voice compelled her to obey.

Two bodies in the dark, breathing too fast, standing too close. She could feel the heat from his nearness. His hands gripped her shoulders, traveled the length of her arms, finding and grasping her own trembling hands. They were strong. And impossibly gentle. Like no man she had ever known.

“Must you be so afraid of me?” he whispered, his eyes yearning.

Overwhelmed, she pulled away.

A loaded silence. She was sure he could hear her heart pounding.

“Gute nacht, Sylvia.”

Then, he returned to his room….leaving the door slightly open.

In a flash, her body awakened to possibility. There was nothing to stop her going to his bed. She could cross the landing, open his door, and let him undo her. In the dark country house, away from Paris and far from the war, no one would know. She could submit to this charming, terrible, gorgeous, impossible man, with no consequences.

Needs she had long ignored were stirring inside her. It had been…oh god, how long had it been? Wasn’t she allowed to feel good, to be wanted? The universe had offered her pleasure in the midst of so much suffering, would it be so wrong to take it?

Sylvia steadied herself in the doorway of her assigned bedroom, taking deep breaths. She was a spy. She was a resistance fighter. She despised the Nazis and everything they stood for. And she was a Jew…everything Landa and men like him sought to exterminate. There could be no love between them. She thought of her own people, marched to their deaths, slaughtered by the thousands. No matter what he said or did, he was an evil man.

She remembered the contempt in Anne-Marie’s voice as she spat out of the words, “_collaboration horizontale.” _How the French resistance described women who slept with the enemy.

Sylvia was nearly sick from what she had almost done.

She fumbled in the dark for her canvas prison shoes and put them on. She had to get the hell out of there.

On the landing, she looked once again at the open door to Landa’s study, and caught the low buzz of snoring. He was fast asleep.

Sylvia gently pushed the door open a few inches and saw that his study was a separate room from where he slept. The door to his bedroom was ajar but only just. And there were stacks of files on his desk.

The folder on top was stuffed to bursting with papers. As lightly as she could, she tiptoed over to the desk, snatched the folder, and snuck right back out, stuffing it under the dress and into the band of her underwear on the landing. The SS’s finest detective slept through the whole thing.

Suddenly giddy, she crept down the wood stairs to the still darkened kitchen. She swiped an apple and a small loaf from the pantry. There was a long black overcoat in the hall closet. _Sorry, Marta, _she mentally whispered and buttoned it up to the neck.

The door was, of course, still padlocked. But the big kitchen window gave way with only a squeak. Sylvia used a chair to climb onto the sink, then carefully out the window, dropping to the ground with her precious cargo, the folder, only slightly dampened with sweat.

She walked as briskly as she could down the hill and onto the main road, in the direction of Paris. Freedom!! Her exhaustion became delirious joy at the motion of her own legs, the fresh night air, the stars glittering above. Out here, you could certainly forget there was a war on.

She must’ve walked for some time because she suddenly realized she could see her surroundings. Larks began singing in the fields, and the sky took on a rosy tinge.

Finally, the first vehicle came along, a farm truck pulling a trailer full of livestock. Sylvia flagged it down and to her amazement, it actually stopped.

“Please, monsieur,” she cried in her most waifish voice. “I overslept and my brothers left for market without me. Mama will be so furious.”

The driver, a gruff middle aged man, leaned out of the truck window and assessed the bedraggled woman. Finally, he hooked his thumb towards the back. “No room up here, but you can ride in the trailer.”

“Thank you, sir!” she squealed.

She clambered up into the trailer, swinging one leg at a time over the gate, and found herself face to face with about 20 fattened sheep. As the truck lurched forward again, Sylvia gripped the side to stay upright, and one of the passengers let out a mournful bleat.

“You and me both, pal.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long one tonight! 
> 
> I mean it when I say "slow burn"....
> 
> I think it's gonna be about 20 chapters but we'll see.
> 
> My only historical note is re: Soldatenkaffee, they were a real thing. Coffee shops explicitly for German occupying soldiers. Most Parisians were boiling acorns or grains for "coffee" by 1943.
> 
> Again, thank you to everyone reading and giving kudos!! This is the first fic I've ever posted and I'm so glad folks are enjoying it!


	7. The Safe House

“What the hell is this?” Edward scoffed.

Plenty had happened over the weekend, as it turned out. After the Etoile blast, Sylvia’s commanding officer had been shipped back to England, for undisclosed reasons, and Edward had been promoted in a hurry. Considering how well he knew the territory, you couldn’t deny he was the best possible replacement. And he was the best radio man in Paris by a long shot. But boy, could he be a prick.

“It’s all blank. There’s nothing in this.” He began tossing sheets on the floor.

“Keep looking,” Sylvia began to sweat. “He left it on top, it has to be valuable.”

Edward discovered the overstuffed pocket in the back of the folder, and dumped it out onto his lap.

Newspaper clippings. Lots and lots of newspaper clippings. About Landa. Photo ops of Landa with Hitler Youth. Landa in German tabloids with various film and cabaret stars.

“Agent, are you telling me you blew off a valuable source to bring me blank paper and that egomaniac’s scrapbook??”

“What was I supposed to do, stay there? In his house?? Where anything could happen??”

Edward dropped his volume condescendingly. “Yes, agent. Where anything could happen, up to and including getting real intel!!!”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I was in danger! He’s obsessed with me!”

“Well, that would explain who threw the grenade, now, wouldn’t it? If it meant he got to ‘rescue’ you.”

Sylvia sat back in her chair and digested this. Holy shit. Could he…would Hans have done that?

“Should I go back to his house then? Is that what you’re suggesting?”

“No,” Edward commanded. “You’re cover’s fully blown and the Germans have your photo. You’ve gotta lay low, real low. We’ll put you in a safe house for a few months. Congratulations, agent, you’ve made yourself a real powerful enemy.”

She blanched. “A few months??!”

Edward began to pick up the papers and slap them back into the folder. “You know why they call him the Jew Hunter, right? Because he’s real good at finding ‘em. And if he’s ‘obsessed’ with you, we can’t put our other operatives at risk.” He handed her the folder, clumsily stuffed. “Three months. Catch up on your reading, wash your hair, stare at the walls and be glad you’re not in a camp.”

She took the folder mechanically, and not trusting herself to be polite, left without another word.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first two weeks were a long smear of boredom and anxiety.

The safe house was a small, narrow building near the north bank of the Seine, and walking distance from plenty of tourist attractions…which would be great, if she were allowed to leave.

She had groceries delivered, cooked simple meals on her two burner stove, and smoked what passed for cigarettes these days out of her single window. She read fashion magazines, movie magazines, National Geographic, even German propaganda. She sometimes jogged in circles around the room, until the downstairs neighbor banged on the underside of her floor. Edward had created a new cover for her, “Thérèse,” and had her hair dyed and cut. It was the wrong shade of brown for her coloring but that hardly mattered now.

Alain dropped off a packet of toffees in the lobby. But the agents were forbidden to go up and visit her.

It was gonna be a long three months.

Parisians were expected to turn their lights out and keep their blinds shut after dark, in case of air raids. But some nights, after the city fell into that uncanny, Occupation quiet, Sylvia opened her window and leaned out. Just to take in the air, blow smoke, and look at something other than the wall.

What would have happened if she had made a different choice that night, on the landing? It was too late now. And, knowing Landa, he would certainly find her again.

_I almost wish he would, _she thought, in her most secret of hearts. At least, in Landa’s custody, she had someone to talk to.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hans Landa had always believed in the importance of thorough paperwork. No matter what you accomplished, it was worthless without proper documentation. He found it immensely satisfying to fill blanks, cross off lists, and organize information.

But that afternoon, at his massive desk on the third floor at 84 Avenue Foch, he found himself reluctant to touch pen to paper.

It was Sylvia’s file before him. Or “Greta’s,” rather.

He could update it with her real name. He could denote her as “at large.”

Hans’ ego smarted from the rejection. He was accustomed to having any woman he wanted, without much effort. Not only did she push him away, but ran from him in the night (and stolen the dummy file he always left on top of his actual paperwork.) But there had never been a woman like Sylvia.

He tapped his fountain pen against the polished wood. If his superiors learned she had escaped, he’d look like a fool…and the Gestapo would circulate posters with her photo, putting her in grave danger. But if they discovered she had died in his custody, well…._these things do happen, _after all.

He thought of the wild, foul-mouthed harpy he caught testing the kitchen knives. He also thought of the trembling creature on the landing, frightened by his touch.

Next to BIRTH NAME, he wrote “Unknown.”

Next to STATUS, he wrote “Deceased.”

And Greta Van Horn was no more.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

About two weeks into Sylvia’s stay at the safe house, something interrupted her endless reading: pounding on the front door.

She sat up in an instant, blood rushing in her ears. What were they shouting? “Absuchen.” Search. Good enough for her.

In seconds she was in shoes and a coat, and slipped out of her room into the hallway. One furtive peek over the railing got her a glimpse of green uniforms. Gestapo.

_This was supposed to be a safe house!! _How the hell?

She rushed to the window at the end of the hall, swung a leg over, thought of what a rare treat it would be to leave a building out the door, for once, and reached for the ladder – that wasn’t there.

She stared dumbly at the bare brick wall where she clearly remembered a ladder installed for just this purpose. What was happening? No time to think. She grabbed the top of the window frame and pulled herself up to full height. From there, she felt the wall for a brick she could grab, then another, and very carefully eased herself up to the edge of the roof. Thank god they had put her on the top floor.

She hoisted herself over the ledge, dropped onto the roof and sank low, out of sight. And breathed.

The truth was, nothing was ever really “need to know.” People talked, to their lovers, their close friends. Loose lips and all that. But most of her fellow agents didn’t even know this address. Had someone sold her out to the Nazis? Who would do such a thing? How else could they have found her?

_Oh._

“You’ve made a very powerful enemy,” Edward’s voice reverberated.

Sylvia’s head fell back against the roof wall with a _thunk._ She had spurned the Jew Hunter himself, and now the chickens were coming home to roost.

What’s more…she had left her new papers behind. Son. Of. A. Bitch. So much for “Thérèse.”

She had to keep moving. Luckily, the rooftops on this block were flat and easily traversed. She picked her away across to the other avenue, clearing each ledge, constantly checking over her shoulder. 

After a tense hour of so shivering in the wind, she determined the coast was as clear as it was gonna get. To her immense relief, the door to the stairwell was loosely latched, and within minutes she was down the stairs and out in the streets of Paris, with no papers or identification whatsoever.

First stop: a telephone booth. She made a call, spoke one phrase into the receiver – “I’ve had two years to grow claws, mother! Jungle red!” – and hung up. This was her distress code. There would be a message for her to pick up later. Now she had to kill time.

The mist turned to rain, and walking became miserable. Sylvia slipped into a cinema, where some goofy monster movie was playing. Aside from some scattered singles and a German soldier and his girlfriend necking in the back row, it was empty. Still, she felt paranoid. The badly made-up actor roared, the pretty blonde screamed and screamed, and Sylvia waited.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hans swirled his wine glass distractedly and scanned the room for anyone he absolutely had to speak to tonight. It was some Waffen general’s birthday, or anniversary, or they just felt like being honored with a lavish party. He found these functions, and most of the attendees, absolutely unbearable. But his presence was expected, and he had to keep up appearances.

“Why, Colonel Landa! Am I glad to see you at this stuffed-shirt parade,” a silvery voice purred. It belonged to a petite woman in a bias-cut gown. She put out her hand expectantly.

“Mitzi Schubert!” He bent to kiss her hand. “What a pleasant surprise.” An old fling. Well, a one-night stand. Okay, more like ten or twenty night stands. She was a cabaret dancer who flitted around high-ranking Party members like a moth to a flame.

“What’s the matter, baby boy? Not in a party mood?”

His mind was on Sylvia. He couldn’t escape her. Nor could he find her. The trail went cold at that open kitchen window of the country house.

“You could say that.”

One of Mitzi’s delicate hands came to rest on his arm. “Let’s get out of here, Hans. We can have our own little party at my place. What do ya say?”

He’d had little interest in skirt-chasing lately. But a night with Mitzi was a guaranteed good time, and perhaps the distraction he needed. 

Hans put his arm around her waist. “Lead the way.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The bookstore was closed.

Sylvia was absolutely stunned. It was a Resistance front, its entire purpose was cover for agent communication. How could it be closed?

Something was very wrong. Someone had been compromised, and Sylvia wasn’t going to be next.

She continued walking, now completely at sea. No word from her commander, nowhere to sleep tonight, no cover, no papers. She was a sitting duck. And it was approaching curfew.

Dipping into an alley, she found an apple crate, half rotten from the rain but still strong enough to support her weight. Maybe she could just sit down and figure it all out. Maybe snooze for just a little bit. Her chin dropped to her chest. She was awfully tired.

_The sensation of freefall._

Then a start as a blinding light shook her out of sleep. Headlights. She shielded her eyes to assess the figure stepping out of the car, and nearly laughed out loud. Of course.

_Congratulations_, _Standartenführer_, she thought as Landa crossed the headlight beams of his Mercedes towards her. _You_ _win_ _this_ _round_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sylvia's distress code is a line from the 1939 movie The Women, one of the funniest movies ever made.


	8. Hypotheticals

Hans cut the engine, freezing the windshield wipers in mid arc. Raindrops quickly filled the glass, obscuring the two figures inside.

Sylvia immediately noticed perfume. A woman had been in this seat tonight. The continuing exploits of Colonel Landa the womanizer, with Sylvia Leventhal in a featured role. She made no comment.

They sat in the dark like this for some time.

“Fraulein, may I pose a hypothetical?”

As if she had a choice. “Sure.”

“Suppose…the Allies had a number of intelligence agents working in Occupied France. And suppose one of these agents is a lovely young Jewish woman, such as yourself.”

Sylvia rolled her eyes.

“As a Jew,” Hans continued, “she is in greater danger than her fellow agents. It would stand to reason that her command take additional measures to guarantee her safety, don’t you agree? Perhaps, someone lobs a grenade into a meeting, and this agent is trapped under rubble. She will almost certainly be arrested if left behind. Shouldn’t her rescue be her comrades’ first priority?”

She simmered but kept her mouth shut.

“Now suppose she runs away, back to the city and surely, to the protection of her command, yet she ends up outside after curfew, cowering in a dark alley, soaking wet and hungry, am I correct?” She nodded, she was certainly hungry. “One assumes her command has once again abandoned her. Taking all of this into account, if the Allies cannot successfully keep _one _field agent safe, what does this say about their prospects of winning the war?”

“When you put it that way…” she muttered.

“Do you have somewhere to sleep tonight, Sylvia?”

She swallowed. “No, I don’t.”

Hans slapped the dashboard. “See how your command has failed you?”

“Look, I don’t know what you want me to say here, but my unit are good people. They’re my friends. They would never abandon me. If anything, command is compromised.” She turned to Hans. “And your timing in all of this is pretty convenient. You sure you aren’t the one lobbing grenades and sicc-ing Gestapo on me?”

He scoffed. “Grenades? Don’t insult me. We’re as baffled by that blast as I’m sure you are. And I’ve told you, Gestapo aren’t my men.”

“Well, you have a real uncanny sense of when to come rescue me.”

“Sylvia,” his voice turned softer. “What happened? Where are you supposed to be?”

“I don’t spill that easy,” she started, then cocked her head slightly. “You really didn’t send that raid?”

“What raid?” He seemed genuinely concerned.

“The safe house was raided today…I had to climb onto the roof to escape. I haven’t been able to get a hold of my command, I…I think something really bad has happened. I left my papers, too.”

She trailed off. The rain intensified, filling the silence.

“Stay with me, Sylvia,” Hans whispered. “Let me take care of you.”

“I need to leave the country.”

“You’ll never get past the checkpoints.”

He was right.

“We’re enemies, Herr Landa. You keep forgetting that.”

“I haven’t forgotten for a second.”

The rain was punishingly loud.

“No one has ever raided my property, Sylvia. In all of France, there is nowhere safer than with me.”

“Because you’re the one who orders the raids.”

Hans looked resolutely forward, at nothing. “That’s correct.”

“Your job is to exterminate me. I’m a roach to you. A rat.”

“I’ve made it abundantly clear that’s not true.”

“You’re a Nazi!”

He tried to wave this away. “My loyalties are not so cut and dried.”

She indicated the medals on his jacket. “Well, that’s an awful lot of hardware for a casual Party member.”

The rain began to let up. Sylvia could faintly make out Landa’s hands gripping the steering wheel.

“Please,” he finally continued. “Let me protect you.”

“While you go out every day murdering my people?”

A long beat. Another vehicle swept by on the avenue but must not have seen them. The sound of tires on wet road faded, until it was only the rain again.

“Make your choice, Sylvia. I have no desire to leave you in danger. My home is open to you.”

“Hans,” she ventured carefully. “I’m an enemy of the state. If you shelter me, you’re committing treason.”

“Yes, I am aware of that.”

A deep breath. “Are you willing to commit treason for me?”

“I already have.”

She turned and found his face inscrutable in the dark. But something had unmistakably shifted. She knew he was telling the truth.

If Hans hadn’t found her, another, less sympathetic officer would have. She truly had no choice. But she appreciated Hans pretending she did.

“I’ll stay with you,” she replied at last.

“And you won’t run away this time?”

“No.” Was it a lie? Time would tell.

“Smart girl,” Hans said, and started the car. The sudden blast of headlights startled them both for a second. The wipers picked up their rhythm. And the car began to move.

As they rolled carefully along the cobblestone street, Sylvia watched the looming silhouettes of buildings pass. The Trocadero gardens, the Eiffel Tower, all made strange and forboding in occupation darkness.

She realized they were nearing Avenue Foch.

“Hans,” she asked. “You don’t happen to have any candy? Maybe a toffee?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks to everyone reading and leaving kudos!


	9. Mixed Signals

In a plush Paris penthouse, Hans Landa pulled his finest dress uniform pants over his rapidly-fading erection.

“You’ll catch your death of cold out there, Hans,” Mitzi moaned from the bed, still naked.

He buttoned his shirt and cuffs. “You have worn me out body and soul, Mitzi, it’s time I went home.”

She pouted. “What if I want to go another round?”

“I’m hardly the only officer in your book, Fraulein.” She wasn’t usually this clingy. But to be fair, he wasn’t usually this distracted in bed. Oh, sure, he’d given her a solid plowing, she’d moaned, and “Oh Hans,” and climaxed. But she knew she hadn’t had his full attention, and Mitzi was the kind of woman who took it personally.

“But I don’t want some other officer.” She sat up, the silk sheet falling away from her stunning breasts. Any other night, Hans would’ve leapt right back into bed for another romp. But something had changed, something he couldn’t explain to her. Something he couldn’t quite parse himself.

“Goodnight, Mitzi,” he cooed, kissing her hand. Then he left her alone.

Hans arrived at his posh townhouse just before midnight. Upon opening the door, he nearly stepped on an envelope in the vestibule.

One glance at the handwriting and Hans sprinted back out to his car.

It was from the surveillance man he’d had posted across from the Resistance front bookstore. The bookstore had inexplicably closed early today, and Sylvia was spotted outside shortly after.

Visiting Mitzi had cost him hours. Damn it all!

Hans tore down the Boulevard Raspail towards the 14th arrondissement, as far as his spy had tracked her before she vanished in the shadows. It was not a short walk by any means, and well after curfew by that point. She was almost certainly still on the street.

He once prided himself on being able to think like a Jew, to flush them out wherever they may hide. Now he prayed he could find this one before his own forces did.

Slowing down, he began his methodical block-by-block hunt. And found her, drenched and shivering, within the hour.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Thank you, Marta,” Sylvia said cheerfully to the departing figure of Landa’s housekeeper. “She does speak German, doesn’t she?”

“She speaks everything but conversation,” Hans sighed as he buttered his croissant. It was Sylvia’s first morning in Landa’s townhouse, and she sensed an even stronger animus from Marta than before.

“Hans, I think it’s about the overcoat…the one I stole.” She glanced in the direction of the kitchen. So her “Thérèse” makeover didn’t even fool Landa’s housekeeper. Thanks, Edward. Great job.

“She’ll get another coat. Sylvia, tell me about what happened to your resistance unit.”

She stiffened. “It’s a little early for interrogation.”

“You mentioned your command may be compromised, did you not?”

She stirred her coffee slowly. “I did. It doesn’t concern you.”

“Matters of your safety concern me. And if your command has been compromised by Germans, that could put us both in danger.”

So there it was. Day one under Landa’s protection, and the first impossible test of loyalties lay before them.

“Forgive me, Hans, but there are other lives at stake here than just yours and mine.”

He chewed his croissant thoughtfully. “You don’t trust me. I understand. You’re a good agent.”

“And you’re a good SS officer, hence why I don’t trust you.”

“Well,” he chuckled at the Jewish spy across his breakfast table. “I was.”

Sylvia nearly spat her coffee. “Shit. I take it back. You’re a rotten SS officer, maybe the worst.”

“I wish you wouldn’t use foul language,” he gently scolded.

“There’s plenty I wish you wouldn’t do.”

That old, uncomfortable silence. She took a long sip, savoring the thrill of making Landa squirm.

“While I’m gone today,” he diverted. “Keep the lights off and stay away from windows. Don’t answer the door or the telephone. You may play the radio but quietly. And keep the curtains closed downstairs.”

Did he think she was a child? Of course she wouldn’t open the door or answer the damn phone.

“Marta will leave at noon, and you may find lunch in the icebox.” He deposited his napkin on the table and stood. “Whether you trust me or not, please enjoy the many comforts of my home while I am out earning them.”

He started to walk past her. Her hazel eyes gazed up at him from beneath that new fringe.

He paused, touched his lips to the part in her hair with exquisite tenderness, then briskly continued upstairs.

Marta’s face, watching through the cracked kitchen door, vanished as soon as Sylvia looked up.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On a sunny corner of the Boulevard Pereire, near the Metro entrance, sat a newsstand. Of course, “news” was a strong word these days. Pink-cheeked Aryan children beamed from the covers of Signal, a German propaganda magazine. There were many, many copies of Signal, and a few stacks of newspapers.

The young man behind the counter squinted. From the far edge of the plaza, an SS Standartenführer strode right towards him.

He dropped.

A moment later, Hans Landa approached the seemingly empty newsstand. “_Bonjour_?”

Silence.

“Monsieur Fournier, I know you’re hiding from me. Stand up at once.”

Alain slowly reappeared. “Please, Herr Landa, you blew my last cover and I really like this job.”

“Your cover isn’t blown,” Landa hissed.

“Agree to disagree, sir. And it’s ‘Pierre’ now….or was.”

“Listen, Alain. I have matters of great importance to discuss with you.”

A woman paused at the newsstand, glanced at the Aryan childen, and went on her way.

Landa leaned in closer. “It’s about Sylvia.”

“Where is she??”

“Safe. Completely safe. But I need your help with that.”

“I’m listening.”

Another pause while Landa casually checked the periphery. “It has come to my attention that your unit may be compromised.”

Alain stood up. “Sorry, sir, we don’t carry Filmwelt here,” he replied too loudly.

“Hush! I believe they may be targeting Sylvia. Her safe house was raided. I found her on the street after curfew. What kind of operation leaves an agent stranded? It’s disgraceful.”

The young man appraised Landa coolly for a moment. “It is.”

“Ah, so we are on the same page.”

“Sir, you may be on a page, but I’m still stuck on the cover.”

Landa cocked his head slightly. “A smart boy like you ought to know better than to judge books by their covers.”

“Sometimes, a cover tells you all you need to know,” Alain replied, thumping the nearest stack of Signal.

A young SS soldier stepped up. “Three copies of Signal, please.”

Alain made change as the soldier unctuously saluted Landa. “An honor, Standartenführer!”

Landa nodded. Both men waited until the soldier had crossed the boulevard.

“Alain, I want to propose a deal.”

“Go on.”

“I’m going to give you information that would lead to my immediate arrest, humiliation, and likely execution, were you to use it. In return, you give me the information I need to investigate the mole in your operation. Are you interested in such an arrangement?”

The young man seemed to be rifling through many possible scenarios in his mind. “Yes, I am.”

Landa motioned him to lean in, and behind a cupped hand, whispered, “_I’m sheltering Sylvia in my home.”_

Alain leaped back, goggle-eyed. “You’re what?? But that’s…”

“Treason.”

The young man struggled to close his jaw.

“So you understand the delicacy of this arrangement.”

“I do, Herr Landa. And thank you, truly, thank you. But…”

The question hung in the air.

“But what?”

Alain shook his head. “I think I know the answer to that one.”

Landa’s mouth creased into a semi-smile. “My mission has been compromised as well.”

As if on cue, a fresh crop of commuters poured out of the Metro, and Landa had to step aside while they purchased their papers.

When the last had departed, Landa asked, “Perhaps you’d like to visit her?”

The young man brightened. “Can I come tonight?”

“Privileges must be earned, young man.” Landa slapped the counter. “Will you be here tomorrow?”

“Every weekday,” Alain replied. “Before you go, can you—“

Landa waited while he fished in his pocket for a moment, producing a gum wrapper.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The record player hissed and scraped as the song ended once again. Hans replaced the arm, and the clarinet strains of ‘Zauberland’ began once again.

“I don’t know why, I just love it,” Sylvia sighed as the Valtonen sisters’ close harmonies soared from the Victrola console.

“Shh, you don’t have to explain.” Hans took her in his arms once again as their bodies picked up the rhythm. This had become a ritual now, a little dancing at the end of the day. He had mentioned teaching her to waltz, but tonight, she only wanted Zauberland. Slowly, gently, they swayed along beneath the unlit chandelier.

His hands, strong, steady. The smell of him, his tobacco, his warm breath in her hair.

How long could she put off the inevitable? How much longer could she swallow her own lies?

She pressed her other cheek to Hans’ chest….and looked directly at his medals. Swords. Swastikas. SS.

_Zauber _(magic) was make believe.

“I’d like to go to bed…to sleep,” she stammered, pulling out of his embrace. “Goodnight.”

Hans stood alone as Zauberland played through once more, and Sylvia ascended the stairs to her bedroom.

She didn’t know exactly what the medals meant. But she knew what they stood for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone reading, commenting, and leaving kudos! 
> 
> Updates will be less frequent now, so bookmark if you want to keep up!
> 
> P.S. I'm making a youtube playlist for this story, including all of the songs mentioned as well as the ones that have inspired it (including the title song.) Let me know if you'd like the link!


	10. Alignment

“I have something for you,” Hans dangled over the breakfast table.

Sylvia laid down her fork. You could never be too suspicious of Hans’ surprises.

“Put out your hand,” he commanded.

She obeyed.

With exaggerated smoothness, he reached over the breakfast dishes and dropped a wadded gum wrapper in Sylvia’s hand, then sat back for the explosion.

“WHAT?? You…but he…HOW?!! Hans, you SAW HIM??”

“You think I could investigate the L’Etoile blast without interviewing every witness?” He feigned insult.

Sylvia tucked the wrapper into her skirt pocket. “Hans, so help me god…if I find out you…”

“My dear girl, have I ever harmed one single hair on your pretty head?” She felt the charm knob turning up. She glanced away.

“Those are my comrades, Hans. They’re your enemies, but if you…please don’t hurt them. For me. That’s all.”

“On my honor,” Hans replied.

What an interesting choice to swear on.

“So you spoke to Alain, then.”

“I did. He’s well. He misses you.”

A sudden pang struck her, as she realized the enormous loss of her former life, vocation, friends, and freedom. A knot in her throat.

Hans’ voice became low, conspiratorial. “Would you like to see him?”

“See him? How? It’s too dangerous.”

“Let him come here.”

Sylvia shook her head vigorously. “I’m not putting him in danger.”

“Supposed he just happens to come by one day, on business. Who would question it?”

She stood and pushed in her chair. “Why are you so adamant that he come here?”

“Because I already gave him the address.”

Sylvia’s jaw set in a way he had learned to watch out for.

“Don’t be petulant. I’m above suspicion, Fraulein. Another comfort of my home you’re welcome to enjoy.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sure enough, later that afternoon while Sylvia was alone, the doorbell chimed.

Creeping down the stairs, she peeked through the sitting room window at the figure on the stoop. Then ran to open the door.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle, would you like to renew your subscription to Signal?” Alain chirped.

She pulled him inside and locked the door before spinning him across the living room in a hug.

“My love!” He held her face in his hands. “That ghastly old kraut wasn’t lying after all!”

She cringed at “ghastly old kraut” but recovered quickly. “And what have you been up to?”

“Oh, they’ve got me slinging newspapers, pure propaganda.” He paused. “Oh, god, love, what have they done to you?”

“Alain, I don’t know where to start, everything’s gone wrong, the safe house, the bookstore, and—“

“I know all that, I meant” – he let a lock of her not-quite-brown hair fall from his fingers.

She slugged his arm. “Sit. We have to debrief.”

Alain looked around warily. He wiped the sofa with his hand before perching on the edge. “Is it catching?” Mouthing the word, “NAZISM?”

“I know, I know,” she breathed, her eyes coming to rest on the copy of Signal Alain had set down. The Aryan children’s eyes glowed with Nationalist fervor. “It’s all….so weird. I don’t know how to explain. I think he’s in love with me?”

He cocked an eyebrow.

“I know! It’s impossible, it’s…” she waved around at the general situation. “All of this is impossible! How the hell are we here right now?? In a Standartenführer’s house??”

“And yet here we are.” Alain touched her wrist. “Are you sure you don’t need me to rescue you?”

“No, no, I’ll be fine…he won’t hurt me.”

“Do you trust him?”

“Well.” She let out a dry laugh. “You know what they call him. What do you think he’s out doing every day?”

Alain wiped his glasses on his sweater. “He’s investigating our unit, actually. He seems to think there’s a mole.”

She processed this for a moment.

“Is that really what he’s up to? How much have you told him?”

“The bare-titted minimum, I’m no fool. But he’s not wrong. We’re compromised. We have been for some time, I think.”

Hearing it from a trusted friend’s mouth made it terrifyingly real. “Who?? We know everyone.”

“Do we?”

Okay, fair point. Running missions, handing off intel, the odd meeting and occasional drink didn’t add up to more than acquaintanceship. They didn’t even know each other’s birth names.

“Alain…they’re targeting me, aren’t they? Someone wants me dead.”

“It certainly seems that way.”

She fell back against the sofa, tears of frustration beginning to well. “What have I done? I was an eavesdropping waitress, why bother?!”

“Well, it’s obvious why, love.” Alain crossed his ankle over his leg. “You’re compromising Landa. And without Landa, their hold on Paris is in the proverbial shitter. He’s an important man.”

Sylvia had never considered herself to have this much power over the Nazi occupation of France. “So…you’re saying one of us is a German plant??”

“Or taking German money. Same difference.”

“What are they so afraid of?”

“That you’ll turn him to the other side, naturally,” Alain replied with a chuckle. “Look what he’s already done for you.”

“There _is _the treason…”

“Oh, _would _that a man would commit treason for _me,_” he whined dramatically.

“Hush, you have Philippe.”

Alain’s eyes seemed very tired all of a sudden. “Afraid we’re not doing so well. He’s always out late, disappears for days at a time. We quarrel when he comes home. The strain is getting to him… I don’t think he has the fortitude for this life. I think he’s seeing some nice civilian boy on the side. Pity, isn’t it?”

“Oh, Alain. Have you tried talking to him about it?”

He sighed heavily. “Some things can’t be talked through. I don’t want to cut him loose under these circumstances, but….”

Sylvia knew all about “but….”

“So,” Alain eagerly changed the subject. “Tell me all about your Nazi benefactor.”

“Well…” She picked at the upholstery. “He saved me from the rubble at L’Etoile…”

“Oh god, you have to believe me, I was so worried about you, we all were, but Edward kept shouting at us to run…he seemed to think we should sacrifice one agent for the greater good. We wanted to go back.”

“That’s official protocol, Alain. The good of the unit.” It made her sick to know they had intentionally left her behind, protocol or no.

“Still,” he remarked slyly. “I’d say you’ve made out okay. What’s he like, your old Colonel?”

“He’s not THAT old. He’s…obnoxious? Arrogant? But I don’t know, Alain. He came looking for me, every time. He might actually care for me.”

She didn’t mention how delicately he held her as they swayed to the phonograph, mere feet from where she sat now, the way his hands just grazed her skin as though she would shatter at his touch, the nightly battle with her desires that she knew, eventually, she’d lose.

“How touching. But I’m sure you’ll squeeze great intel out of him.”

She shifted awkwardly. “Sounds like he tells you more than he tells me.”

“He did tell me your birth name, _Sylvia_.” Alain smiled. “It suits you.”

Strange, but soothing, to hear her name from someone other than Hans. “Thanks.”

“And because it’s only fair….” He put out a hand. “I’m Robert. Pleased to meet you.”

She grasped his hand. “You are _not_ Robert.”

“You’re right. I’m thinking of keeping ‘Alain,’” he chuckled. “After the war.”

Could there ever be such a thing as ‘after the war,’ she wondered?

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The tip came in just before Hans had hoped to leave the office, shortly after dark. What he’d been quietly dreading for weeks.

An anonymous report of a household sheltering Jews, in the west suburbs. He was to investigate at once.

As the black Mercedes hurried west, Hans lit a cigarette and watched the carcass of Paris recede in shadow. He had always felt he had an engine of his own, drawing on some everlasting power source to propel him forward, higher. There was no rank, no star, out of the reach of Hans Landa. Others bowed to him, and why shouldn’t they? He had always sailed serenely past the rest of mankind, secure in his superiority.

Now, the engine within him roared, as always...but in a direction he could no longer control.

The cigarette ash dropped on Landa’s coat, unnoticed.

He stepped from the car, surrounded by his men. Soldiers, hungry to obey. Unmoved by blood. All standing by for the slaughter.

Upstairs, there was a pale, fragile man with little hair, wiping his hands nervously. “Yes, Oberst,” “Of course, Oberst,” “Naturally, you must do your job, Oberst,” “We certainly don’t want to cause any trouble, Oberst,” until Hans thought he would vomit.

An obviously hollow wall. A hilariously fake bookcase. The crack of a door visible, even, from the top of the bookcase. An insult to his intelligence.

Hans looked.

He saw figures huddled in the dark. Holding their breath. His eye met other eyes. He saw them, in their hiding place. They saw him seeing them.

And something within him came uncoupled, like the cars of a train. He felt his engine continue and leave another part of him behind.

He had been standing at the bookcase for so long the man behind him had begun to weep. Begging for mercy. Confessing his guilt.

“Nonsense,” Landa snapped. “You have wasted enough of our time tonight.”

“Oberst, I…I…don’t understand”—

“Understand this much,” he barked, shaking with something more violent than fury. “We will not tolerate false reports. Your petty squabbles with the neighbors are none of our concern. The SS will not come to this house to be toyed with again.”

The man seemed to be in shock, gulping air like a fish, as Landa swooped out the door.

He came to a halt against the wall of the stairwell, a cold fist gripping his heart. What had he done? How would he face his men? Every part of him that had been light, hollow, easy, now filled with dread.

He held his hands out before him. They were shaking, badly.

He could still call out to his men. Send them up with their machine guns and do the job he was assigned.

Or he could shove his hands into his pockets and go home. To her.

Hans staggered down the remaining stairs. The choice had been made before he’d arrived. Before he’d even gotten the report.

As he returned to the night air, he almost expected their guns to be pointed at him.

“False report,” he bellowed. “An utter waste of time.” If they grumbled as they returned to their motorcycles, he didn’t hear it. Above him, the sky glittered with stars, distant and cold.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The knock on her bedroom door gave Sylvia a start. Hans had never done that before. She considered pretending to be asleep, but surely he had seen the light under her door.

She was wearing only the little white nightie Hans had let her pick from a catalog. Oh well.

She opened the door.

His face was contorted in a way she’d never seen before. He stepped toward her, and pulled her into a hug so tight she almost choked.

“Hans,” she breathed into his shoulder. “What happened?”

He pulled back to search her face, her eyes. She looked down uncomfortably.

“You have every right to be afraid of me, Sylvia,” he finally said. “You’re in the clutches of a monster.”

“I…wouldn’t say…‘monster’…”

“You know what I’ve done,” he nearly snarled. “The blood on my hands. And you, so good… I don’t deserve to touch you.”

What could she say to that? He was a terrible, violent man, representing a hateful ideology. And no, he didn’t deserve to touch her.

But…

Sylvia’s heart and mind were at war, and something had to give. Which may be why, when his right hand, the same hand that had dispatched so many like her to their deaths, drifted to her face, she didn’t flinch. His thumb traced her cheekbone. His fingers pushed into her soft hair. As her eyes finally, openly gazed into his at close range, electricity trailing his touch, the last of her resolve gave way.

Like a planet falling into orbit, she moved toward him. And they kissed.

They separated, each shuddering, hesitant. Then met once more.

His left hand moved to the small of her back, drawing her in closer as he deepened the kiss.

She finally pulled away, gasping. His lips then found her jawbone, her neck, her temple. And those hands, good god, those hands.

At last, he stepped back, leaving her panting, hungry. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Goodnight, Sylvia,” he said gruffly. Then left, closing her door behind him.

_How the hell am I supposed to sleep after that?_ she thought.


	11. Distant Light

Sylvia found herself learning a new alphabet: An ‘accidental’ brush of fingers in the hall. A shoulder squeeze as she sat reading. Prolonged contact in the passing of the sugar bowl, or the salt. The drift of a hand to her back, to her waist, when greeting or passing by. The gramophone muted in the ear pressed against his uniform. Lips on her temples. On her cheeks. On the back of her neck.

And today, a new addition: a quick goodbye kiss at the door, only their second mouth kiss since that night. Seemingly chaste, a comma in a run-on sentence neither had the nerve to punctuate.

Then she had stepped back, forcing herself to take him in, from the terrible Totenkopf on his cap, to the SS insignia on his lapels, the medals, the weapons, the jackboots. _I must take all of him in without flinching_, she thought. _I must step off this cliff with my eyes wide open. _

Sylvia was no fool. She knew a woman’s love had never truly changed a man. But a man had the power to change himself. And Hans’ actions dared her to hope.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Do you recall what I said to you, the day you told me you wanted to join the SS?”

Gruppenführer Wilhelm Von Barenboim, an older man of aristocratic bearing, paused his slow strut around his offices to look back at Hans.

“You said, ‘a man’s destiny becomes his when he takes it,’” Hans recited.

“Correct,” Barenboim continued, now moving to a decorative enamel globe. “Look at this globe, Landa. Imagine the future that awaits us Germans, that shining hour when Europe is cleansed of…”

Hans knew this spiel backwards and forwards. Knowing he had at least a minute or two to check out, his mind zipped back to that morning, in the foyer. Her, stepping forward to kiss him! Initiating contact! The light fragrance of her hair, the sweet flush on her cheeks. Her lips, so impossibly soft…then he was back in his superior’s office –

_And here comes ‘the glorious destiny of the Master Race,’ _thought Hans.

“…to usher in the glorious destiny of the Master Race!” Barenboim concluded with a flourish. He was practically drooling with excitement. A dyed-in-the-wool fanatic of the old guard, or as old as it got for a party 20 years old.

“Landa, my boy-“

Hans expertly blinked away his irritation.

“—you moved up the ranks faster than any SS officer I can recall, and you have only made me prouder. You have used your talents well in service to Germany.” A pause. “However…I am troubled by your performance, of late.”

“My performance? I don’t follow.”

Barenboim strode slowly back towards him, finally sinking into the armchair opposite. “Landa, your arrests have fallen significantly in the past two months. It cannot be ignored.”

Hans sighed. “I’m afraid my current operation will take many more weeks to complete, Gruppenführer. If I rush into arrests now, it will quite spoil the result.”

The Gruppenführer made a dismissive hand motion. “Landa, far be it from me to question your methods, and I’m certain your work on the French Opposition is important. However, I have spoken with the Führer, and he agrees: we want our Jew Hunter back.”

A stabbing sensation in Hans’ gut.

“If you’ve kept up with my reports, surely you’ve noticed how few Jews are left to arrest! Most of the tips we get are now false, or based on old information. I can hardly be blamed for being too thorough.”

Barenboim steepled his fingers. “I hear rumors you’ve lost enthusiasm for your work.”

“Wherever could that have come from,” he chuckled, beginning to sweat.

“Now, now, don’t get defensive. I know your commitment to duty. Perhaps you’ve been working too hard. A vacation may be in order? Or even….marriage?”

Hans smirked. “Marriage? I thought you said you knew me.”

Barenboim leaned forward. “Between you and me, it would look better if you married the girl.”

“I beg your pardon?” Hans sputtered.

“I know, I know, she’s not strictly suitable for an SS officer, but…for a man of your rank, the purity standards could be relaxed. You’ve had your fun, sowing your wild oats and all, but consider the example you set for young soldiers. She’s beautiful, she’s devoted to you! Put a ring on her finger, have children. We’ll take care of the paperwork.”

“_Have children??” _Hans heart was about to hammer out of his chest.

“Yes, children!” Barenboim was smiling broadly now. “You can do everything you do now, and go home to her after. Does that sound so bad?”

“Gruppenführer,” Hans asked as steadily as he could. “Exactly which woman are you talking about?”

“Why, that Schubert girl of course. ‘Mitzi.’ The one hanging all over you at every function the last few years. Keep her at home, make her respectable.”

Hans thought his head would fall off and roll across the floor. “I…will consider it.”

The Gruppenführer stood, and shook Hans’ hand vigorously. “Be sure to invite me to the wedding!”

Hans assured him he would, turned, left, heard the door close behind him, walked around the bend in the hallway, and nearly dry heaved on his own shoes.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

With a rusty jangle of the door bell, Hans pushed his way into the tiny Librairie Yvette, toward the register, where a lanky young woman had propped her feet up on the desk.

“Good afternoon, mademoiselle…”

She had dark eyes behind thick glasses. “Anne-Marie.”

“Mademoiselle Anne-Marie, I am Standartenführer Hans Landa of the SS. Do you work here?”

Anne-Marie looked to one side, then the other, down at the register, back up to Landa. “Apparently.”

He swallowed this impertinence behind a smile. “Mademoiselle, I have a few questions to ask you, and I wondered if there’s somewhere private we could chat?”

She returned at her book. “Nope.”

Hans leaned down to her level. “Mademoiselle, this is an urgent public security matter. I must speak with you at once, and I’d prefer to have the conversation in private.”

Anne-Marie clapped the book shut. “Standartenführer Landa, there is no private room. We can either talk right here, or we can talk some other time.”

He dusted off his most winning smile. “Then let’s just talk here.”

“Pull up a chair.” Hans grabbed a rickety wooden chair and took a notepad from his coat pocket. As he prepared his fountain pen, she took out a pouch of tobacco and began rolling a cigarette.

“Anne-Marie,” he began. “I just have a few questions, nothing too invasive.”

“Good,” she grunted, twisting the end of the cig.

“First of all, were you working here the night of Thursday, 18th of March?”

“_Oui_.”

He wrote this down.

“According to our sources, the bookshop closed rather early that evening. Hours before the posted time of 6pm. Is that correct?”

Anne-Marie struck a match and lit the cig. “_Oui._”

“Was there a reason for this deviation from the schedule?”

She took a long drag, closed her eyes, and exhaled. “Didn’t feel good.”

He paused. “What was that?”

“Didn’t feel good,” she repeated, louder.

“Did you confer with the owner of the bookstore about this? Yvette herself, perhaps?”

“Yvette?” Anne-Marie scoffed. “Not Yvette. Gavin. He said it was fine.”

“The owner of this bookstore is someone named ‘Gavin’?”

“Yep.”

“Gavin…”

“I dunno. Just Gavin. I called him. He didn’t care.”

Hans wrote, _Gavin???_

“This Gavin, he doesn’t work here at the bookstore with you?”

“Nope. He just owns it.” She ashed in a filthy saucer on the desk.

“I see.”

The clock ticked a few times.

“Anne-Marie, can you think back a little further for me? To the night of the 22nd of February? Where were you that evening?”

He had her full attention now. “I was here.”

“Ah. Was it a quiet night?”

“I think so.”

Hans nodded. “Then I supposed you must’ve been quite startled by the blast.”

She cocked her head slightly and took another drag. “Yes, I was.”

“What did you think it was?”

She blew the smoke out the side of her brightly-lipsticked mouth. “To be honest, I thought the Brits were coming.”

He chuckled. “Were you frightened? The Café L’Etoile isn’t far from here.”

“Nah.”

Hans closed up the notebook. “Just one more thing, and you can get back to your novel, Anne-Marie.”

“Shoot.”

“We’re looking for a young woman named Greta Van Horn.”

Hans watched her pupils dilate behind the glasses.

“She was found in the rubble of the café, but later escaped from our custody. Her trail has since gone cold.” Hans lowered his voice conspiratorially. “We are offering a sizable reward for information on Greta’s whereabouts, her background, anything we can use to find her. Furthermore, an arrangement could be made between the SS and your…company to ensure your safety, including papers and checkpoint clearance. Sacrifice one for the safety of all. I think that’s more than fair, don’t you?”

Anne-Marie sat for a moment, smoke curling from her cigarette. “That name doesn’t ring any bells.”

Hans fixed her in his gaze. “You’re sure?”

She nodded.

Hans pushed out his chair, stood, and offered his hand. Anne-Marie stared at it.

“Ah.” He dropped his hand. “In that case, good day, Mademoiselle.” And left the bookstore.

Back in the car, he pulled out the notebook again and turned to a dog-eared page. There was a list of names. Underneath where he had crossed out ‘Alain,’ he crossed out the name ‘Anne-Marie.’

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A side effect of mandatory Occupation darkness was the sudden visibility of stars.

On the top floor of Hans’ townhouse, there was a large skylight. And when her eyes adjusted to the dark, she could see multiple points of distant light.

Sylvia lay on the floor under the skylight to gaze. She tried to conjure the sweet night air of her country childhood, crickets, rustling trees, cool grass.

“Sylvia? Are you up there?”

Hans must have emerged from his study. She felt silly, all of a sudden, laying on the floor staring at the sky.

“Sorry, I was just…”

Hans appeared at the top of the stairs. “Stargazing, are we?”

Sylvia started to get up.

“No, no, let me join you.” Hans laid down on the floor himself, and patted the floor next to him.

She stretched out alongside him, an inch or so between their bodies. She laid her head on his arm.

Their hearts pounded wildly in the dark.

“They’re all dead, Hans,” she finally said. “The light we see is thousands of years old. Space could be as dark as Paris for all we know.”

“Maybe not,” he returned, close to her ear. He kissed the top of her jaw, then the ticklish side of her neck. She inhaled sharply.

Turning over, she met his lips, hungrily. His free hand explored the terrain of her body, tracing her spine, traveling the swell of her hip. When she pulled back, she found his eyes burning.

“Hans…I want to. I’m ready.”

He stroked her cheek. “Not on the floor.”

She giggled. “Take me to bed.”

They stood, stiffly. She started to head downstairs to their bedrooms.

“Sylvia,” he beckoned. “Undress here. I want to see you in the starlight.”

Slowly, she stepped back under the skylight, lifted the cotton nightie over her head, and dropped it to the floor.

Hans’ mouth fell open like a man in religious ecstasy. He appeared to breathe very deeply. “Turn around.”

Sylvia had never felt more seductive in her life. She turned, cocking her hip, peeking coyly over her shoulder like a pin-up.

Hans came to her, and his hands traveled everywhere they hadn’t before in the faint, silvery light, appreciating the fullness of her breasts, the delicious softness of her ass. As he pulled her close, he was very obviously hard. She shivered.

“I’ve put on weight. I’m chubby now.”

“I’ve noticed,” Hans whispered, with an affectionate slap on her right buttcheek. “You’re perfect.”

One more kiss, more urgent. Then he stepped away, and down the stairs.

“Hans…”

“One moment,” he called. Sylvia followed him, stopping in the doorway of his bedroom.

He was opening the blinds on every single window, just as all of Paris was forbidden to do after dark, and opening the windows as wide as they would go. The night rushed in, brisk and wild, and moonlight made the waxed floors glow.

Clasping her hand in his, Hans led Sylvia to his bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Von Barenboim is my own invention. There are several men I could've used as mentor figures for Landa in the SS, but I personally don't want to write fiction about real life Nazis. A Gruppenführer is equivalent to a lieutenant general, a couple of ranks above Landa's.
> 
> I'll try to get the next chapter up as soon as possible! Thank you to everyone who has left kudos and kind words, I'm so happy you're enjoying it!!


	12. The Honey Trap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you notice the rating change? It's explicit now.
> 
> Enjoy :)

Sprawled naked across his bed, Sylvia’s brain seemed to be running a ticker: THIS IS A NAZI’S BED. I’M ABOUT TO SLEEP WITH A NAZI. She shivered. But stayed.

Sounds: a belt buckle. Trousers unzipping. Tearing of a condom wrapper. Plasticky sound of condom applied. Bare feet padding across the floor. Her heart kicked into another speed as Hans Landa sat on the edge of the bed, also naked.

He gingerly ran his hand along her shin, mottled green with deep bruises from the L’Etoile blast. Unusually toned for a man of fifty, she felt a bit schlubby in comparison.

Why didn’t he ravage her?

“Hans,” she whimpered. “I thought you wanted me.”

He chuckled. “I’ve never wanted anything more.”

Perhaps he needed a signal. “Come on, then.” She posed her arms above her head, showing off her tits to best effect. Foolproof.

Hans pulled himself alongside her, leaning on his arm. “What’s done cannot be undone, Sylvia. I don’t want you to regret—“

“I won’t.” She sat up slightly. “Will you?”

“It’s treason,” he whispered, reaching to trace her cheekbone with his thumb. “We could both be shot for this.”

“Let them shoot.”

“You’re young and foolish,” he teased.

She looked him dead in the eye. “And you’re a Nazi about to sleep with a Jewish girl.”

“Guilty as charged.” He kissed her, hard, forcing her onto her back again. Goddamn, he was a good kisser.

“You don’t think I’m dirty, then?” She let her legs fall open to him. “Don’t you Germans have a whole book of laws about this?”

“I’m afraid my mind is not on books at the moment.” His erection swayed as he straddled her, and a tiny panic struck her. It had been awhile. This could hurt.

And then his hands were on her again, that hungry way he needed to touch all of her at once. Then he slipped two fingers between her legs, and brought her wetness to his mouth. Sylvia stared. This was going to be a very new experience for her.

“The prisoner shows indisputable signs of arousal,” he growled, drowning her giggle in a kiss. His hips began to move, slowly, rubbing the length of his hardness along her sex, over and over. Finally, he aimed at her opening, and began to push. A twinge. She gasped.

He paused at once. “Am I hurting you?”

“A little,” she admitted. “Go slow.”

He withdrew, and re-entered, agonizingly slow as his lips and tongue sought the sensitive areas of her neck. Then he pulled out entirely, and thrust the entire length again, and again, watching her closely, working her desire to a fine point.

“Wow,” she sputtered.

“Prisoner appears to enjoy the torture,” Hans smirked, and flicked his tongue across one hardened nipple. Her cheeks burned, indignant at how quickly she came apart in his hands, and how very much he relished his power.

“Oh, I know something you’ll enjoy.” He slid off of her, positioning himself at the foot of the bed, and pushing her knees up. He kissed and nipped along each thigh in turn, nearer and nearer. She had never believed any man actually did this. Was Hans really going to?

He did.

She moaned, arching her back as his tongue expertly parted her sex, teasing every fold and crease until she thought she would black out from arousal. How was he so damn good at this?

There was that infuriating little smirk again. He gripped her now shaking thighs. “Do you like the way I’m kissing you?”

Whatever was about to leave her mouth became a yelp as Hans’ lips closed around her clit and sucked. A single, hard spasm convulsed her body.

“Oh no, my dear girl, not yet,” he remarked, repositioning himself over her. “Not until I say so. Is that understood?”

_Of course he wants to dominate_, she thought, and would’ve rolled her eyes if she weren’t so goddamn turned on.

“I asked you a question, Fraulein.”

“Yes,” she breathed.

He pinned her wrists above her head and began to thrust, gently at first, then, after repositioning the pillows to ensure head never met headboard, began to fuck her quite hard. Her moans became a wail.

Then, he suddenly pulled out. “Turn over,” he demanded. She did as she was told.

“Now, put your legs together.” She had never been happier to obey orders.

_Why? _she wondered. Then, she vividly felt him enter her from behind, filling her entirely until she was gripping the mattress and making undignified noises.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Fraulein?” Hans gently bit her shoulder, then resumed his rhythm.

“Yes,” she slurred into the pillow. This was beyond any experience she’d had with any other man. Not even the one she thought was the love of her life, the one she would’ve been with forever…

Hans obliterated that trail of thought by pulling her up from the pillow, squeezing her breast with one hand, and whispering roughly in her ear, “Do you feel me, Sylvia? Do you feel me inside you?”

“Yes.”

His hand, flat on the small of her back, pushed down, tilting her pelvis, and the new angle produced a sensation so intense her entire body convulsed.

“Mmm, I quite like that one too,” he agreed.

She squirmed. “You’re terrible!”

“Oh, I’m ‘terrible,’ am I? For that, you may not come yet.” He stopped.

She let her head drop back to the pillow. Already, the first flutters of anticipation in her walls. “Please!”

“Please what, Fraulein?”

“Please let me come,” she murmured, hoping he couldn’t see how hard she blushed.

“What was that?”

“Please, Hans, I want to come.”

He tsk-tsked, right in her ear. “Is this how you show me respect? What’s my title?”

“_Standartenführer Landa_, may I please come?” she whimpered.

Hans gently turned her head to kiss her, softly, then drove into her as far as he could. Her jaw dropped from the pressure. Then he began to move again. At the tap of his hand she obediently raised her hips, so his nimble fingers could find her clit.

“Come for me, angel,” he pleaded, and once more, she eagerly obeyed. As she moaned and shuddered through a powerful orgasm, he let himself finish as well, collapsing on top of her. They rode out their spasms together, letting their breathing slow and his erection to slack before he finally pulled out.

Hans rolled onto his back next to her.

A long moment as both slowly returned to earth.

Sylvia was first to stir. Hans seemed lost in thought as she shuffled to the bathroom, carefully avoiding her own reflection, then returned to find him much the same.

“I think I need an aspirin,” she chuckled, then seeing the alarm on Hans’ face, added, “It had just been awhile. You didn’t hurt me. But you’re sweet to care.”

“Sylvia, men should care if they hurt you.” He pulled her hand to his lips.

“Well, men should do a lot of things.” She hesitated at the side of the bed, the Nazi’s bed. With the Nazi in it, gazing at her like a peasant in a cathedral. It made her a little queasy. But…

She climbed back in. Hans instantly pulled her to his chest, kissed her forehead, breathed into her hair. Safe from cold, danger, or the knots they’d have to untangle in the morning. Safe, for now.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The soreness was the first thing when she opened her eyes. Not a second’s confusion for her, as every inch of her body screamed what they had done.

She turned her head.

In the pale morning light, the fearsome Jew Hunter was nowhere to be found. The man snoring softly into the pillowcase seemed older, more vulnerable than she’d ever seen him. In a few hours, he would put on that dreadful uniform, and go to work for the government that wanted her and all like her dead.

Very carefully, she eased herself out of bed, and went in search of her discarded nightie. Oh, right. Under the skylight. Oh, god, all of it had really happened!

Tiptoeing back to the third floor, she noticed Hans’ study door had been left open. She listened carefully for any sign Hans might be up. Nothing.

In seconds, she was at his desk. It was covered in notes, documents, stuffed folders, notebooks with tabs and folded corners. Her heart galloped.

She picked up the nearest notebook, and it fell open to a page of sketches. Moving to the light of the window, she immediately realized they were diagrams of the Etoile blast, estimations of the angle the grenade must’ve been thrown from, drawings of the damage. And a rough sketch of a figure pinned under the collapsed ceiling. _Her._

With shaking hands, she turned to another tabbed page: a list of names. _Her comrade’s names._

‘Alain’ and ‘Anne-Marie’ had been crossed out. Lise, Bunny, Edward, George, Sybil remained.

Stuffed in behind it were pages of shorthand notes, questions and answers about the blast, about the unit, about the bookstore. An interrogation. At the top of the first page: “Anne-Marie.”

So he’d told Alain the truth.

She laid the notebook back where she found it, and grabbed the topmost folder. This one was most certainly not a dummy file.

It was carbon copies of letters on official Sicherheitspolizei letterhead, the intelligence branch of the SS, following up on reports of hidden Jews. She skimmed letter after letter: “unbegründet” (unfounded.) “unwahr” (false.) “Keine Juden entdeckt” (no Jews discovered.)

She didn’t remember sinking to the floor, or when the tears broke their holds. As the noises of Paris woke up around her, she clutched the letters to her heaving chest, the written proof of Hans’ sabotage. Of his love. Of the impossible.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“What’s done cannot be undone,” indeed. Sylvia and Hans now couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Every innocent touch became something else. They began dashing upstairs during breakfast, during dinner. Sometimes they didn’t even make it upstairs.

“Don’t come in, Marta!” Sylvia would yell as she mounted Hans’ lap on the living room settee, or as he bent her over the kitchen table with her skirt around her waist.

Clothes and underthings were often strewn on the stairs, in the study, even in the foyer, and they spent more time in the enormous plush bed on the third floor than anywhere else.

Sylvia, accustomed to quick, shameful pumping in the dark, discovered a voracious sexual appetite she never realized she had. In Hans’ capable and loving hands, she experimented, chased her own pleasure, found incredible ease in her own body. Hans, with his decades of experience, delighted in his pupil’s progress. But another piece of the puzzle had yet to fall into place.

One morning, while riding him in his desk chair, Hans murmured something against her collarbone that made her freeze.

“Tell me that when you’re not inside of me,” she giggled. They finished like nothing unusual had happened. But when he kissed her goodbye, she sensed a sadness in the way his lips broke from hers.

Hans was frequently late to the office these days. Surely his subordinates noticed the spring in his step, the new lightness in his tone, and wondered what woman was making the Standartenführer so happy, but none dared ask.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

One afternoon, Hans took the elevator to a different floor at 84 Avenue Foch, and strode through an unfamiliar office block, heads turning as the famous “Jew Hunter” passed. After weeks of carefully worded correspondence, and a little strategic ass-kissing, he had scored an appointment with the extremely-secretive head of clandestine operations: Otto Frick.

The SD’s undercover unit existed in Paris solely to infiltrate the Resistance. None of their agents knew each other unless working together, and all of their records were sealed, even to high-ranking SS outside of their branch. This was Hans’ best shot at discovering the mole.

It was also his best shot at accidentally blowing his cover wide open, and getting both himself and Sylvia killed.

His Sylvia had found what he had purposefully left on his desk for her to see, the proof of his intentions. His sweet spy, who couldn't resist an open door. He had bedded her, possessed her body, given her as much pleasure as he knew how. But her heart, her complete trust...he had a long road ahead.

In the meantime, her safety was paramount.

Hans stood for a moment in the hall, bringing his mind into surgical focus, before knocking.

Otto’s office was much smaller than his own. A hooded table lamp was the only source of light. The man who stood and gave a cursory salute was shabbily dressed in just a shirt and suspenders. Hans disliked him immediately.

“Ah, Herr Frick, what a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Frick had already sat back down. “I understand you’re interested in our work, Standartenführer.”

_A refreshing lack of pleasantries, _thought Hans, settling into the chair opposite. “Indeed I am, Herr Frick. I’ve been investigating the L’Etoile Café blast, which, as you know, has yet to be claimed by any Gestapo or German operative. Yet, interestingly, the grenade seems to be—“

“—of German military make, Model 43, we know,” Frick spat.

Hans blinked. “I see our investigations overlap.”

“They certainly do.”

Delicately sidestepping, Hans continued, “Specifically, I need to know if any of your men have infiltrated this Resistance unit. I believe they may be planning a retaliatory attack.”

“I’ve heard nothing of the sort from my ops.”

“Perhaps we should compare notes, Herr Frick. You may find my intel valuable.”

Frick let out an exasperated sigh. “Standartenführer, forgive me if this sounds, I don’t know, insubordinate? But the Resistance is a hobby for you. It’s our full-time job. We don’t need your help. What’s more, sharing extremely classified intel outside of our operation could put my men in danger.”

Hans’ mind shifted to another gear. “It must be nearly impossible keeping their identities secret, Herr Frick. The SS is not so well-organized, I’m afraid.”

Frick seemed to appreciate this. “We must, Standartenführer. Our ops put their lives in danger every day. We’ve devised a system to ensure no agent can endanger another agent under torture.”

“You must be a marvelous commander,” Hans flattered. “To ask so much of your men, yet receive their loyalty. I’m afraid I fall short in that aspect. My soldiers are never quite happy. How do you do it?”

“Oh, I respect them, give them what they need.” Frick puffed up slightly. “I’m also fortunate to have the best agents in all the Reich. Great, brave men.”

Hans nodded. “You must reward them for their sacrifice.”

“I do. In fact, we’re planning a retreat for them at Von Barenboim’s hunting lodge, next month. The city wears them down. German men need fresh air, you know.”

“I certainly do,” Hans smiled. He stood and shook Frick’s hand vigorously. “Your work is impeccable, Herr Frick. If I can be of any assistance, please, don’t hesitate to call.”

His next stop: Van Barenboim’s secretary. The one who always blushed when he kissed her hand. This was almost too easy.

As he stepped back into the office block, however, he immediately noted a change in reaction. Snickers. Whispers. Brazen stares.

Even the bellhop seemed to be surpressing a smile.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

At a little newsstand on the corner of Boulevard Pereire, near the Metro station, copies of a trashy German tabloid, Das Megafon, were selling at a clip.

Once the rush had died down, Alain grabbed a Megafon from the dwindling stacks to see what was so damn titillating.

He found it on the second page, and very nearly fainted.

The crudely-censored photo comprised a two-page spread: Standartenführer Hans Landa bending a young blonde woman over a table, her face clearly visible.

Sylvia!!!

Alain broke out in a sweat. What on earth could he do? He had to remain at the newsstand for four more hours. Another cluster arrived, asking for Das Megafon. He shoved the copy he’d been reading under the counter.

“We’re sold out,” he stammered.


	13. The Home Front

Once again, a grenade had been hurled into Sylvia’s life, trapping her beneath the fallout: the April 5th issue of Das Megafon. As before, Hans Landa swooped in to rescue her.

And as before, she fought him.

“I can’t be _engaged_ to a Nazi!” she spat.

“It’s only for the press,” Hans replied calmly from the sofa. “Your cover identity is my fiancée. It’s make believe.”

She shook her head. “It’s too dangerous, it’s too much, Hans. I don’t want to do it.”

“I was ordered by the Oberführer. We don’t have a choice.”

A tortuous pause.

“I’m going to be out in the open, Hans!”

“My dear girl, you’re already out in the open. This is damage control.”

She paced angrily, like a caged animal. “You don’t know what you’re asking of me! To be in public with you? It’s bad enough I’m already a, a….Nazi whore!”

This stung. Hans blinked. “Is that how you feel, Sylvia?”

“I…don’t know how I feel.” She stopped pacing and glared at nothing in particular. “I feel exposed. I feel scared.”

“Understandable. But she’s gone now.”

Indeed, when Hans rushed home to fire Marta he found only a cursory “goodbye” note (and a very baffled Sylvia, who hadn’t yet heard.) So she was taking her Megafon payoff and returning to Austria. Must be nice.

Hans picked up the offending paper from the coffee table. “Did you read the article? No one suspects the truth about you.”

She had recoiled at the photo, and hadn’t read the accompanying paragraphs. She skimmed them quickly. Indeed, they speculated she might be an heiress, even royalty, but when it came to her true identity? Ice cold.

But still.

“They’re going to look into me. These tabloid journalists are shameless, Hans. What happens when they figure it out?” Sylvia demanded. “It would take months to establish cover that deep.”

“It won’t matter. They’d never imagine an SS officer would marry a Jew.” Hans smirked.

She was absolutely infuriated to realize he was right.

“I’ll have papers made for you,” he continued. “Backdated documents, birth papers, citizenship. But as my fiancée? Who will ask?”

Sylvia flopped onto the other end of the sofa. “When my command finds out…”

“My girl, I’m sure they already know.”

“They’re going to think….oh god, they already think…”

Hans touched her arm gingerly. “Sylvia….has our intimacy made you feel dirty or bad?”

She finally met his eyes. He seemed wounded in a way she had never seen. “No, no it hasn’t. And I don’t want to stop, I just—“

“Which matters more, then? What they think or what you know to be true?”

_If only I knew anything to be true,_ she thought.

Silence. A distant siren somewhere down the boulevard, horns honking. The sounds of outside. The world she would soon be re-joining.

“It’s very Hollywood, isn’t it?” she snickered. “A fake engagement.”

“It will be rather glamorous. Parties, functions, dinners…”

“Nazi parties, Nazi functions, Nazi dinners,” she corrected. “On the arm of a Standartenführer.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “But having read my reports, you have a more accurate picture of my loyalties.”

Her cheeks grew hot with embarrassment. He laughed.

“Think of it as another assignment.” He pulled her to him, and the tight coil of her body begin to soften in his arms. “Think of the intel you’ll gather.”

“There’s no one to share it with,” she murmured. Then a thought struck her, so suddenly she pulled back with a start. “Hans, turn yourself in to the Allies. Become a double agent.”

He sniffed in derision. “What on earth for?”

“For your own protection! For mine!!”

“We don’t need it, angel. Stay with me, and I’ll keep you safe.” He pulled her to his chest again.

She reluctantly pressed her face against his uniform, the insignia of his rank, the reason she was still alive.

Hans held her trembling body close, straining to feel the beating of her heart, the only part of her he had yet to master.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few days later, Ilse Bronner was born, fully grown, from the sea of German bureaucracy like Venus on the half-shell. Austrian, a simple farm girl of the Alps, whiter than Edelweiss and purer than a mountain spring (well, previously), she was the ideal mate for a high-ranking Nazi.

Hans watched as the stylists of the toniest salon in the 1st arrondissement applied blonde dye to his Sylvia’s hair, from little bowls. She cringed at the smell.

They had been to some fashionable boutiques earlier, the shopgirls registering surprise at the Standartenführer’s new mistress, then withering under his glare. She was no starlet, sure, but she was his.

Or was she?

The ammonia smell from the dye was overpowering. Hans ducked outside into a sunny plaza, and lit a cigarette.

Hans had always prided himself on his lack of allegiances. All the world was a game, and he the master of it, twisting the rules, playing the weaknesses of others, collecting his reward, moving on. There was no challenge he could not conquer…until _her._

When he joined the Nazi party, he had merely placed his bets on the fastest horse. And the gamble had paid off splendidly, thrusting him higher and farther than ever, granting him all of his earthly desires: money, fame, status, control, and beautiful women by the score. What he did in the name of the Party had never bothered him much. He led a neatly compartmentalized life, absolved of all culpability. Even bringing Sylvia home merely added one more drawer, a secret diversion. She was never to touch any other part of his life. How did it all collapse?

He blew out a long stream of smoke, and watched it dissipate against a startling blue sky.

The Soviets had recently hammered the Axis on the eastern front, and after so many years of victory, any defeat was bound to seem catastrophic. For the first time, the possibility dangled that Germany could lose the war. There was one thing the Führer didn’t know how to do, and that was ‘lose.’

And there was his Sylvia. After months of his charm offensive, she had succumbed to his touch. He could hold her, kiss her, have her, and she happily consented. She even came to his bed of her own will, night after night. Why wasn’t he satisfied?

What more did he need? Her love? How childish.

He examined this feeling, rotating it in his mind, perplexed. It was a complicated knot.

What kept her at his side? Security? Certainly. The attention? Perhaps. But what happened when the war ended, especially if her side won? Would she stand by him as he faced trial for war crimes? Testify that he had saved her life, protected her fellow operatives, and let other Jews go free? Hell no, she’d be gone like a shot, and he couldn’t blame her.

Perhaps it was for the best. He’d never needed anyone before, and this bizarre yearning was a pain in his ass. Attachments were burdens. Sylvia was a lovely distraction, and, potentially, a wild card he could play with the Allies. But nothing more.

He dropped his cigarette on the paving stones and crushed it beneath the heel of his jackboot.

Back inside, the salon women had finished applying the dye, but still gathered around Sylvia like flies on honey. She was animatedly telling a story, in her shaky but serviceable new accent:

“—and then, Papa flew off the sled, and tumbled right into the she-goat! What a noise she made as they rolled down the hill!” She let out an indignant bleat.

The salon ladies shrieked with laughter.

“Papa’s face was so red!” As she waved her hands, the little diamond on her left hand glinted. “Then, just as he got up, cussing and raving, the she-goat knocked HIM down!”

She was dishing up pure _Scheiße_, and these snooty German sympathizers were eating it up.

Watching her work, an entirely new thought struck Hans: no matter what happened, she would survive. She had never needed him. And eventually, she would realize that.

The knot within him pulled tight.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A week later, a black Mercedes pulled up in front of La Taverne d’Amboise, its driver dutifully opening the back door for his esteemed employer.

Standartenführer Landa, in his grey uniform, stepped out first, then helped a younger woman with shining blonde hair and a sable coat onto the curb. The notorious Ilse Bronner, Landa’s betrothed, linked her arm in his to enter the restaurant.

Sylvia knew she was hardly a great beauty, and while a chic hairstyle and some expensive clothes did wonders, she was well aware that wasn’t why every patron in the restaurant stared.

“Like meat in the lions’ cage,” she whispered to Hans as the maître d’ led them to a corner booth.

“Let them stare,” he returned, squeezing her gloved hand.

Hans ordered an expensive-sounding bottle of wine, Sylvia beaming demurely at the waiter.

“What was that you ordered? I _am_ but a simple milkmaid.”

“Something dry, with a little bite,” Hans cooed. “Just like you.”

“Speaking of wetness, if that hand moves any further north we’ll have another scandal,” she retorted.

“They’ve seen worse. In last week’s Das Megafon, for example.”

Sylvia, noting the number of eyes on their booth, giggled sweetly. “If we were at home, I’d slap you.”

“If we were at home, I’d have that gown around your waist by now.”

“So filthy. What would Mama and Papa and the she-goats think?”

Hans opened his mouth to respond, but the waiter arrived, uncorked the wine, and poured each of them a glass.

It was damn good wine. Leave it to Hans to know these things. Sylvia took a long sip, and nearly spat it out as Hans’ fingers slipped beneath the edge of her panties.

“Not here!” she hissed.

He sighed, and reluctantly moved his hand to her knee. “Do you know what you’d like? It seems the only thing I want to eat isn’t on the menu.”

Sylvia’s jaw dropped. “Standartenführer!!!”

The waiter returned, and without missing a beat, Hans ordered veal parmigiana for both of them, with soup and bread to start. Sylvia, uncomfortably aroused, focused on her breathing.

“Soup AND bread?” she snickered. “Careful, you won’t have room for dessert.”

“Our dessert’s at home,” he purred.

“Oh, no you don’t. I want a slice of torte first. Or chocolate mousse. None of this ‘sex is dessert’ nonsense.”

“What’s that American expression? ‘Have your cake and eat it, too?’”

Sylvia flicked her eyes to his. “If you’re still this heated after supper, I’ll need the energy.”

The soup and bread arrived. Sylvia bent low to blow on the first spoonful, then turned to Hans, who was unabashedly staring at her neckline. “You’ve seen my tits enough times, you must have them memorized by now.”

Hans pouted. “I can’t even admire my betrothed?”

“I’ll be sure to let _Ilse _know,” she replied, before slurping the bisque.

Then, she registered another pair of eyes on her entirely. With practiced tact, she glanced up, and in her peripheral vision….no. It couldn’t be. _Lise!_

Hans was suddenly very focused on dunking his bread.

“I see why you chose this restaurant, Hans.” Sylvia held Lise’s blue eyes as the petite girl approached their table in her waitress uniform. “The service is outstanding.”

“Why, if it isn’t Ilse Bronner,” Lise chirped. “How well you’re looking.”

“Thank you, Miss…”

“Amandine,” she spat. “Perhaps you’d like to be shown the powder room, Miss Bronner?”

Sylvia nodded towards Hans, who merely smiled. That bastard!!!

Once inside the powder room, Lise spun and locked the door. Sylvia reached to hug her, but withered under Lise’s glare.

“You know, fucking Nazis is Bunny’s gig. I don’t recommend stepping on her toes.”

“Lise,” she stammered. “You have to believe me, I—“

Lise raised a hand. “No, I don’t _have _to believe you. I saw that picture. Everyone did.”

Sylvia lowered her eyes. “He’s sheltering me in his home, Lise. He’s taking care of me.”

“Let me guess: he _loves _you?” Lise snorted. “Don’t make me puke. I fucking looked up to you, you know that? I thought you were so brave, so hardass…and now look at you! Selling out your own people for some dick and a fur coat.”

“I thought you knew me better than that,” Sylvia stuttered.

“Yeah, so did I.” Lise crossed her arms. “I wish I’d brought my pistol to work. That’s what we do to _traitors.”_

“Lise, calm down, please,” she began, and immediately knew it was a mistake.

“Calm down?? CALM DOWN??!!” Lise punched the wall. For being barely five feet, she was more than capable in a fight. “We’ve been fucking worried about you! You vanished off the face of the earth! No one’s heard from you in weeks!”

“I tried to call! I called multiple times!” Sylvia was near tears. “The bookstore closed before I got there, no one answered my calls, Lise, you have to believe me, it’s the truth! We’re compromised, and it’s me they want to get rid of!”

Lise appeared to process this information. “You said you called, and the bookstore closed early before you could pick up? That’s pretty fishy.”

“It’s not Anne-Marie,” Sylvia quickly jumped in.

“Well, to be honest, if anyone’s secretly helping the Germans, it’s your Nazi-fuckin’ ass.”

“I know this is hard to believe,” she began, shakily. “But Hans is helping us. He’s been investigating our unit to find the mole. That’s why he brought me here, so we could talk to you.” Lise cocked her head curiously. “I don’t know why he wants to help us, but he does. Talk to Alain about it.”

Lise scoffed. “No one talks to anyone now. New policy. No contact between agents.”

“Since when?” Sylvia sputtered.

“I dunno. A month or so. Supposed to keep us safer. All the Resistance units are implementing it.”

A still moment. Sylvia caught her very yellow new hair in the mirror. Everything was so strange now.

“He found me in the rubble, Lise. I was supposed to be shipped to a camp but he saved me. He took me home. When I couldn’t get in touch with my unit, he found me again. I don’t know why he keeps rescuing me.” Sylvia eased herself into the powder room chair. “He’s obsessed with me, Lise. I don’t know if that’s love or what…but I snooped in his reports. He’s letting Jews escape. He’s an active saboteur.”

Lise leaned against the counter. “Greta—“

_Oh God, she still thinks I’m ‘Greta!’ Sylvia thought._

“—I really hate to be the one to tell you, but he’s feeding you bullshit.”

“Why would he lie to me? What would be the point?”

The younger girl blinked. “So he can keep hitting that puss-puss.”

Sylvia cringed. “Don’t be crass.”

“Oh no,” Lise gasped. “Oh, Christ, you _love _him!”

She shook her head vigorously. Rolling her eyes, Lise unlocked the door to leave.

“Don’t tell anyone at command you saw me,” Sylvia pleaded.

Lise turned. “I won’t. But don’t think I’ve forgiven you. Don’t think for a second I even _like _you.”

Sylvia stood on wobbling legs. “Thanks anyway, Lise.”

“See, this is why they had you pouring coffee, and Bunny doing the seducing. You aren’t cut out for that game.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Later that evening, as her chic gown hit the floor, as Hans’ lips worked their way up her neck and his erection once again pressed into her backside, Lise’s words echoed in her mind.

What if all of it was fake? The reports, the investigation of their unit, all of it?

His hands began to massage her breasts. Those same hands could still be sending Jews to their deaths, for all she knew. Doubt seeped into her mind, like a drop of ink spreading across a page.

As Hans laid her onto the bed, she surreptitiously slipped ‘Ilse’s’ engagement ring onto the nightstand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience! And sorry to keep you waiting, but real life interfered for a minute. Thank you for your kudos and comments, it makes me so damn happy to know you're enjoying the story!


	14. Blood on the Door

It came embossed, on the Führer’s official letterhead: an invitation to Paris’ celebration of the Führer’s _Geburtstag _(birthday) on April 20th.

“Mr. and Mrs. Hans Landa are cordially invited,” Sylvia laughed. “Who the hell is Mrs. Hans Landa?”

“A regrettable error, but, I imagine the Führer doesn’t like us living in sin.”

“If he only knew.” She tossed the invitation on the coffee table. “Obviously, I’m not going.”

Hans frowned. “But you must go.”

“How am I supposed to sit through all that flag waving and ‘sieg heil’-ing? I’m not much of an actress.”

“You’re a spy, Sylvia. I’ve seen you work. You are very much an actress.”

She warmed a little at this compliment. “What are they like?”

“The _Geburtstag _ceremonies? Dreadful. And long.”

Sylvia made a sour face. “You’re really selling it.”

“But my dear girl, that’s why you must go with me.” Hans took her hand. “So I have someone to complain to.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The morning before, Sylvia lay awake for a long time.

It was the first day of Passover.

She wished there were even one other Jew in her unit, to have a little Seder with. Last year, she and Alain had gone through the motions of one, he reading from the little script she had written up. “Why is this night different from all other nights?” he had read in his London lilt.

Passover was a time to celebrate the persistence of her people, and to thank God for their continued survival. The name referred to a time when, during one of God’s plagues in Egypt, her people painted lamb’s blood on their doorframes, ensuring the plague would pass over their homes.

Sylvia, not a terribly observant Jew even in peacetime, gave quiet thanks to God for sparing her, by placing her in the home of the enemy.

Hans would be awake soon. How strange, that she could be so completely intimate with a man, yet hide entire pieces of her life from him. She could hardly ask him to partake in her Jewish traditions, and in fact, the thought of even mentioning Passover to him seemed impossible. As long as he kept putting on that uniform, as far as she could tell, he was still a Nazi.

So she said nothing.

After breakfast, Hans turned on the radio, and that was when they learned of the ghetto uprising, that tens of thousands of Jews had refused to surrender to Nazi forces in Poland. They fought back with grenades and Molotov cocktails, killing a number of German soldiers, all to resist deportation.

Hans said nothing but Sylvia felt tears of elation roll down her cheeks after the German announcer had already moved on. Her people were fighting back. And what the hell was she doing with her afternoon? Getting final tailoring on her gown for Hitler’s birthday??

She felt his hand move across her back to her shoulder, a gentle squeeze. _What would you have done? _she burned to ask him. _Would you have helped them resist? Refused your duty? Or do you only help us when it’s convenient? _The words scalded her throat, but she remained silent.

She needed more than some letters and notes, more than a role as his pretend Austrian fiancee. She needed Hans Landa’s atonement.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The wretched _Geburtstag _came. Hans mercifully let her sleep as late as she wanted, until the sun slanting across the bed became undeniable.

The gown was royal blue, off the shoulder, and skimmed her curves gracefully. It was simple, tasteful, glamorous without pulling focus, as fit the occasion: the Führer’s birthday was less a party than a ceremony. With her shining blonde waves, she would fit right in.

“Hans,” she whispered as the Mercedes turned the corner, revealing the enormous swastika banners hung across the façade of the grand hall. “I lined my purse with plastic in case I get sick.”

“I might need to use it first,” he murmured.

She set her face to her most winning smile, and arm in arm, they entered the hall.

“Landa!” Some ruddy-faced general strutted up to them, kissing her hand and blustering about something or other. Within seconds, another SS had lined up to salute him, and congratulate them “on their impending nuptials.” She nodded, in a way she hoped was at least charming.

“You can speak to them, you know.” Hans guided her towards the bar. “Your German is excellent.”

“Every soul in this room wants me dead, Hans,” she snapped.

He patted her arm reassuringly. “You’re my fiancée, remember? No harm will come to you.”

“Ilse’s your fiancée. Sylvia’s scared as hell.”

He kissed her cheek, then brushed his lips to her ear. “You have nothing to be afraid of. I love you.”

Stunned, she froze. Had she heard that right?

There was no time to react. Another officer had approached, with his own wife in tow, who immediately gushed over Sylvia’s gown. “Oh, I’m not used to such nice things,” she lilted, her Austrian accent floating over the top like cream. “I’m from a simple family, in the Alps.”

“How lucky you are to have gotten _such_ a husband!” the wife gaped.

Sylvia smiled in that practiced way. “Yes, I am.”

Then, the wife was pulled away, and she realized Hans was deep in conversation with another officer, discussing news from Italy. She nursed her drink and appraised the room, enjoying the tiny triumph that a Jew had infiltrated Nazi high society.

The sound of a slow clap brought her back to attention. She turned, and a very beautiful, dark-haired woman in a slinky gown was leaning against the bar next to her. She reeked of gin.

“So you got him hook, line, and sinker,” the woman drawled.

“I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met?” Sylvia offered graciously. “I’m Ilse Bronner.”

“And I’m Mitzi Schubert. An old friend of Hans. A _very, old, friend._”

Sensing animosity, she tried to step back but Mitzi’s finely boned hand landed on her wrist. “Stay. We have so much in common, you and I.”

Sylvia turned to see Hans, and nearly panicked to discover he was gone.

“Oh, he does that,” Mitzi continued. “Working the crowd. Hans is very sociable. I can be very sociable, myself. We’ve been very sociable together.”

“So, how…how are you acquainted with my fiancée?” Sylvia felt her stomach begin to turn.

Mitzi leaned in uncomfortably close, her big eyes glassy. “Honey, let’s just say you’re not the first girl he’s bent over a table.”

“Miss Schubert,” she managed. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to tell me.”

“Relax, kid,” Mitzi purred. “I’m just givin’ you the lay of the land.” She tilted her head meaningfully. “Emphasis on the _lay.”_

Sylvia’s initial shock was transforming into something more potent. “I’ve heard all about his exploits with women, if that’s what you mean. You’re beautiful, I’m not surprised he went for you.”

“Oh, he went for me. How he went for me. Not beautiful enough to keep him around, though.” Mitzi grew wistful. “I must say, I’m surprised he went for _you, _you’re not his type at all.”

Sylvia’s cheeks flamed.

“Oh, now, don’t take that the wrong way. I meant he likes…dancers. Actresses. Chorus girls. You know. Legs.”

“I see. You’re telling me I’m fat. Well, Miss Schubert, that’s not news to me, and it certainly isn’t news to Hans. Perhaps you don’t know him as well as you thought,” Sylvia uttered with as much dignity as she could. “Good day, Miss Schubert.”

Swooping away from Mitzi’s deadly glare, she anxiously pressed through the crowd until she found Hans, conversing with a gawky young woman who immediately excused herself.

“A secretary in my office building,” he confided, flashing her a folded piece of paper before slipping it in his pocket. “A list of German infiltrators. Our mole is probably on this list.”

Sylvia nodded, distracted.

“Are you feeling alright, my dear girl?” Hans pressed his hand to her forehead. “You’re flushed.”

“Hans, I need to go,” she stammered, feeling her knees begin to wobble. “I need to go home right now.”

A series of chimes, indicating it was time for the attendees to find their seats.

“Are you ill? They’re very much expecting you at the ceremony.”

“I know, I just…” she trailed off, then a burst of confidence. “I spoke to Mitzi.”

“Oh, her,” Hans chuckled. “An old flame. Nothing serious, but I’m afraid she’s still quite besotten with me.”

Sylvia bit her lip.

“My dear fiancée,” Hans teased, a wicked smile creasing his eyes. “Are you jealous?”

“I’m not your fiancée,” she whispered. “Just another girl you bend over the table.”

The chimes played again. An usher gestured to them urgently. The Führer was not in attendance but they were under his strict orders not to seat latecomers.

Hans buried his mouth in her hair. “Sylvia. When we get home, I’ll take you to bed, and kiss every inch of your delicious body, and I do mean _every inch._ Then I will flip you over and ravage you until you are out of your mind with pleasure. After, we will smoke in bed like decadent pigs, then turn out the light and lay warm and content until tomorrow. Does that appeal to you?”

He began to guide her up the stairs to their private box, at mezzanine level. “It does…”

“All we must do is survive the next four hours,” he trilled.

“FOUR HOURS?” she mouthed, aghast.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Four. Long. Hours.

The pageantry, the solemn flag waving, the bad poetry, the embarrassing speeches, the pack of fidgety Hitler Youth whimpering through some ode to the motherland.

As the night wore on, more and more esteemed speakers appeared.

“There’s Goebbels,” Hans whispered. “Does he not remind you of a ventriloquist’s dummy?”

Sylvia shot back, “with Hitler’s hand up his ass?”

Hans’ face contorted with the effort of suppressed laughter.

Goebbel’s speech was long and grim, with calls for sacrifice, and bravery in the face of defeat. It gave Sylvia the impression that the war must be much worse for Germany than she thought.

As the speech dragged into standard-issue anti-Semitism, she noticed Hans begin to squirm. “Back in a moment,” he whispered before slipping through the heavy velvet curtain.

Great. I’ll just sit here alone, in an auditorium full of Nazis, listening to a hateful speech deriding my people, she thought. Minutes passed, and Goebbels was replaced by the general who had greeted them at the door. Hans still had not returned.

Well, if he’s gone for a smoke, I might as well have one, too, she reckoned. And slipped out to find him.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hans’ head pounded as he descended the stairs, Goebbels reedy voice echoing behind him.

His Sylvia had damaged him beyond repair. Where he once felt nothing, shame and guilt rang out like church bells. Where his mind had been calm, a permanent roar now underscored his thoughts. It was a sickness, these emotions, this self-awareness. The sight of the swastika made him nauseous. The simpering speeches, the ass-kissing, the atrocious bust of Hitler himself adorned with wreaths, was more than he could bear.

And yet…this was his Party. He had thrown in his lot with the Third Reich, and it was too late to recant. His mind mercifully blurred the atrocities, the bloodied faces of his victims frozen in horror, the sheer amount of lives he had taken or allowed to be taken in his prior numbness. Sylvia, with her fiery commitment to justice, must never know what he had done, no portion of it. He knew there would be no forgiveness, not even from her. _Especially_ not from her. But at least for now, she was willing to look away, and he could only be grateful.

He had said the words. And she had not returned them. He smarted from this failure, but understood this was probably not the right time. In a quiet moment, when her lips were swollen from his kisses and her eyes shone across the pillow, then he would tell her again.

“You seem lost, Colonel Landa.”

Hans became aware of a gorgeous redhead at the bottom of the stairs, in a fitted gold dress. Out of habit, his eyes skimmed her body from toe to tip. Ye gods, she was stunning. And packing a pistol in her right garter.

“Maybe I can point you in the right direction?”

He blinked, confused. He had never seen this woman before, at any Party function. “I don’t believe we’ve met before, Miss…”

The redhead laughed easily. “Bunny. Bunny Barnett.”

_Bunny. _One of the last on his interrogation list. Jackpot!

“Miss Barnett,” he conceded, his charisma now cranked up to full power. “What a pleasure to meet you. I’d introduce myself, but it seems you already know me.”

Bunny ran a hand up his arm, feeling the muscle definition beneath the wool. “I was hoping we could go somewhere and get better acquainted, Colonel.”

He smiled wolfishly. “Lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Organizers of Geburtstag celebrations were given very specific instructions: bust of Hitler with wreaths, tasteful eagles, but not too many symbols. Poems must be read in a "genuine" manner. Only dignified music. After all, what's a birthday without strict rules??
> 
> Sorry about the cliffhanger! (well...not really. But I'll do my best to have the next chapter up this week.)


	15. Unresolved

Before leaving their plush theater box, Sylvia turned and saw the vast sea of Nazi faces, slick-haired soldiers and coiffed wives, receding into the darkness. At least a couple thousand. Any one of them would kill her in an instant, if they knew.

The lobby was as empty as a mausoleum.

With a hard swallow, she willed herself to stay calm. He wouldn’t just abandon her here. He must be nearby. Surely.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Rather cozy accommodations,” Hans remarked as Bunny yanked the utility closet door shut.

“I don’t mind getting cozy, do you?” The redhead flipped her back against the wall. There was a single light bulb overhead, and a nauseating tang of bleach.

“To what do I owe the, uh—“ she had begun to open his jacket. “…pleasure of this meeting, Miss ‘Bunny Barnett’ of Detroit, Michigan, aged 29?”

Her fingers froze. “Someone’s done his homework.”

“Incidentally, Miss Barnett, I’ve been looking for you.” Hans plucked her hand from his uniform. “You’ve saved me a great deal of time by coming to me.”

“Is that so, Colonel?” Bunny shot him a flirty smile but he could tell she’d been thrown.

“Fraulein, you were present the night of the Café L’Etoile blast, were you not?”

“Ugh, must we? I can think of much better uses of our time.” Her left leg began to rub against his.

“Yes, I’m afraid we must.”

Suddenly her hands were on his ass. “Do you find me distracting, Herr Colonel?”

“Not in the slightest,” he lied.

Smirking, Bunny reached back and unzipped her gown. The bodice fell away, revealing a truly incredible bust. “How about now?”

“That’s hardly fair,” Hans grunted, concentrating on the wall behind her.

“Love and war, Colonel.”

“You haven’t answered my first question. No matter, I know you were at Café L’Etoile so we shall move along. Why was Greta Van Horn left behind?”

Bunny’s green eyes widened. “Greta? I…”

“Ilse Bronner to the German press, her birth name is something else entirely, but your unit knew her as Greta.” He did so love showing his hand, now and then.

“Hmm. I see your ‘fiancée’ has loser lips than I thought.”

“Or I’m simply ahead of you.” Hans began re-buttoning his jacket but paused as Bunny’s pistol pressed against the grey wool.

“Now listen here, you Jerry bastard,” she hissed. “I care about one thing right now, and it’s Greta’s safety. Do as I say. You wouldn’t be the first Nazi I’ve sent to hell.”

“Miss Barnett,” Hans replied, slowly reaching for his own holster. “Have you considered the possibility we might be playing for the same team?”

“You some kind of double agent for the Allies?”

“There’s a second possibility.”

Bunny cocked the trigger. “I oughta blow your kielbasa to next Sunday for even suggesting that.”

“Apologies for bringing down the mood, but someone in your unit is a German mole. They’re targeting the woman you know as Greta, and I’ve made it my business to find out who.” He lowered his voice. “Now, Bunny, are you ready to answer my question?”

“I followed protocol that night, Colonel,” she spat. “Did you?”

“Certainly, the night I found her. The week after, when I took her home? Decidedly not.” He smiled impishly.

Bunny slowly lowered the pistol, then tucked it back into her garter. “Let her go.”

“She is free to go whenever she pleases.”

“Sure, Colonel, got any bridges to sell me?”

Hans shrugged. “Perhaps she wants to stay with me. I protect her. I take good care of her. Why would she leave?”

“Because I know her, and she’d rather be dead in the ground than on a Nazi’s arm.”

He leaned in close. “And yet, she is very much alive, sitting in a theater box, wearing Paris couture, safe and well-fed, with her every need attended to. Your unit abandoned her, more than once. She would certainly be ‘dead in the ground’ without me.”

A beat. Bunny’s eyes flashed so violently Hans was sure she would slap him.

“She’s leaving with me, Colonel Landa,” she finally replied. “And I’m taking her back to the unit. Tonight.” She unzipped the gown the rest of the way and with a matter-of-fact wriggle, it dropped to the floor.

Hans couldn’t resist a slow, appreciative sweep up her body. _Mein Gott, _what a woman.

“A very persuasive tactic, Fraulein.” Hans cleared his throat. “But you seem to forget I’m engaged.”

“Cut the crap,” Bunny purred and kissed him, hard. Hans staggered back in surprise, nearly pulling them both to the ground. She smiled triumphantly. “There ain’t no engagement. It’s pure fuckin’ baloney.”

He stared at her, stunned.

“You know how I know, Colonel?” She undid her bra, tossing it aside.

_Wow._

“Because I know Greta. I know who and _what _she is. She could never love a Nazi. No matter how many hot meals or mink coats you buy her.” Her hand closed over his now aching cock and balls. He swore in response. “Her heart can’t be bought, Landa. You made her your whore. You’ll never make her anything else.”

A switch had flipped, and while Hans strained to argue, to line up the words and speak, every manipulation of Bunny’s hand short-circuited his brain. An explosion was building from every nerve and vein in his body from the erection she was now kneeling to suck. An ecstatic rush drowned every thought of…

Besides…Bunny was right. Of course she was right.

“You want me to stop, Colonel?”

Hans’ every atom begged for release. “Don’t stop.”

The redhead skillfully took the length of his shaft in her mouth for several agonizing pumps, then released his cock with a pop. “You fucking pig. You’d do anything I asked right now, wouldn’t you?”

“Y…yes.”

“That’s what I thought.” She gave his balls a twist, laughing as he writhed. “Now, next time I take your peter out of my mouth, you’re going to tell me when the next raid is happening and where.” She went back to work.

With that, the door violently swung open, light dousing the two of them like ice water.

It was Sylvia. Hans watched her face drain of color. An airless pause.

He stuffed himself back into his trousers. “It’s an interrogation,” he stammered. “Not…not what it looks like.”

Bunny stepped out of the closet, still almost completely naked. “Greta?? Oh my god. Oh my god!”

Sylvia stumbled backward, blinking in confusion, open-mouthed.

Hans rushed to her first. She recoiled from his touch. “Please, angel. Believe me.” She crumpled against the wall, slid to the floor, and buried her face in her knees. Hans stood over her, insisting, “It was merely an interrogation, I assure you, it doesn’t mean what you think it does.”

Bunny zipped herself back into decency and slowly approached the two. “Greta…I’m sorry but…I really had no idea but…holy shit, baby girl, we gotta get you out of here.”

Hans glared at her.

When Sylvia raised her head, she was tearful, and hyperventilating. “I want to go home.” She began to sob again at the absurdity of that word, ‘home.’

“I’ll take you home, Greta,” Bunny soothed, crouching to her level.

“She’s coming with me,” Hans growled.

“My name is Sylvia. Sylvia Leventhal.” She struggled to her feet, refusing any help from Hans, and wiped her face with her fingers. “And I make my own damn decisions.”

Hans took her by the shoulders. “Please. At least look at me.”

She refused. “Take me home. Say I ‘took ill’ or something.”

Before Hans could guide her back to the lobby, Bunny pressed a card into Sylvia’s hand.

“Seriously, honey, call me if you change your mind. We miss you.”

Sylvia stared at it blankly for a moment before stuffing it in her clutch. Then Hans was supporting her through the empty lobby, through the glass doors into unbearable daylight.

As they waited for the car, the haunting tones of a single trumpet floated from the auditorium, blooming into shimmering orchestral flower.

“Wagner’s Prelude to Parsifal,” Hans said softly.

Sylvia felt the aching strains of the music as keenly as a knife.

The space between them in the back of the car might as well have been a canyon. Silence reigned the entire drive home, both understanding that what had been broken could never be made whole again.

As she stared into the deepening twilight, Sylvia fought an animal urge to just open the door and run.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She sat in the bath for a long time, until the suds receded entirely. A soft knock eventually came at the door.

“Sylvia,” Hans pleaded.

“I’m alive,” she answered flatly.

“We need to talk about this.”

The image of Bunny kneeling, his hands gripping her hair, had burned itself so deeply into her retinas that she could scarcely see around it.

She stood, toweled off, put on a robe and padded to his study.

“Alright then, talk.”

Hans’ eyes were pitiful. A fresh wave of nausea crested within her.

“Sylvia, what you witnessed was part of an interrogation.”

She snorted. “Did that happen with Anne-Marie too?”

“No, it did not. Your friend, Ms. Barnett, instigated.”

“And you didn’t stop her.”

A beat. “No, Sylvia, I didn’t. But I never intended—“

“You didn’t intend for me to find out.”

Hans sighed. “She’s the first woman since I’ve been with you, believe me.”

“So you were faithful a whole month? Bravo, Hans. What a sacrifice.”

“Listen to me. I don’t mean to disregard our intimacy, or the feelings we may share, but Sylvia…we have never discussed exclusivity. I made no promises to be faithful.”

Sylvia rubbed her eyes. “God, you’re right. It’s not even a real relationship. Just sex. I’m a fucking idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot. I care for you, Sylvia. But you’re assuming something that simply isn’t true.”

Sylvia let out a cold, ugly laugh. “You know what Americans say about assuming? ‘Makes an ass out of you and me.” She stood. “Maybe I’ll grab some young Gestapo at the next party and fuck him in the powder room. Would that bother you?”

“That would bother me very much,” Hans muttered.

“It’s only fair. You get one, I get one.”

“Sylvia,” Hans warned.

“Every day, I’ve been here, just sitting here, in your house, waiting for you to come home. You were all I had, Hans. Every night, I’ve been just…available. No title, no real claim to you. Just a warm body you can use.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“Not as sorry as I am.”

Hans reached for her. She slapped his hand away.

“No. You’ve gotten enough from me. Back to your womanizing. If you ever quit it.”

“Sylvia, I know I’ve hurt you terribly, and I am extremely sorry.” Hans was beginning to simmer. “But you’re behaving like a spoiled child, and it’s not helping the situation.”

Her breath caught. “How dare you.”

“I’m beginning to think bringing you home was a mistake.” Hans shook his head. “Whatever was I thinking?”

“Saving my life was a mistake? Is that what you’re saying?”

“No, Sylvia. I’ll never regret saving your life. But I made you dependent on me, and I’m afraid I took advantage of you.”

“You can say that again.” She couldn’t hold back her tears anymore, and her face crumpled in agony. “I trusted you, goddamnit! _You_!! A Nazi!!”

Hans immediately went to hold her. She wrenched free.

“Don’t follow me, don’t knock on the door, just leave me alone,” she wailed.

She went to her room, locked the door, and cried deep, painful sobs which brought her no relief, because the only one who could soothe her pain was also the cause of it.

Hans obeyed her wishes. He never knocked.

She lay awake a long time, her head pounding, alone with her grief. On one hand, he was right: there had never been any discussion of exclusivity, no official relationship. But there should have been. And he should’ve turned Bunny down. If he gave in to temptation that quickly _in an interrogation_, how could she ever trust him again?

The long buried pain of before, the last man to reduce her to tears, began to surface. She felt humiliated, ashamed, hideous, profoundly unlovable.

And to think, she’d let a Nazi get to her like this. Not just any Nazi, the infamous Jew Hunter. She wanted to puke.

It would be impossible sharing a house with him now. Eventually, she would absorb the pain like a splinter, and with nothing better to do, she’d be right back in his bed again…and forever wondering who he was banging on the side. No matter how she played this game, she lost.

She slept badly, and waited until Hans had left for the day to emerge from her room. She crept to his study, lifted the telephone receiver, and dialed the number on Bunny’s card.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was now warm enough to dine _al fresco. _Sylvia found it impossible not to be distracted by all the passersby and street noise, after so many weeks in hiding.

Bunny swallowed her bite of croissant. “I’m sorry, I still can’t believe you were actually…I mean. Fucking him. You were fucking him!! Did he know you’re--”

“A Jew? Of course he knew.” Sylvia wore a dark beret and kept her face low to avoid being recognized as ‘Ilse.’ “Yeah, we were…for a month now. Ugh, I’m an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot. God knows I’ve done some real stupid shit in the name of good dick.” Bunny took a slurp of coffee. “And you were alone with that handsome fucker for weeks, anyone would’ve folded.”

Sylvia nibbled on the end of her croissant. She was hungry, but could barely stomach food. “But I really thought there could be something between us, Bunny. How dumb is that? I had feelings…I thought he…”

“Loved you? Nazis are incapable of love. Subhuman. And you’re Jewish, hon, don’t forget what that means. Pfft. Not a chance.”

She let Bunny’s words sink in for several minutes.

“So, now what? He’s right about the mole, Bunny. Alain was helping him investigate.”

Bunny frowned. “Alain was _helping him?_ Jiminy Christmas, there’s the mole right there.”

“What?? No, that’s what I’m saying he—Hans was trying to protect me by interrogating everyone in our unit. We can go over and ask Alain, he works at—“

“No, we can’t.” Bunny set down her coffee cup with a stern finality. “No contact between agents anymore, remember? We’ll get our asses chewed just for this.”

Sylvia nearly burst into tears at the thought of never speaking to Alain again. And she knew going back to her unit meant closing the book on whatever she had with Hans. She felt as if she were choosing which limb to amputate.

But this was an agent’s life: sacrifice. She had to toughen up. Focus on the mission. Her country needed her, the Resistance needed her, and her fellow Jews needed her. Her childish attachment to Hans Landa couldn’t stand in the way of duty.

She took a deep breath, and willed her hands to stop shaking.

“Okay, Bunny, what time’s the appointment?”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hans spent the afternoon waiting for the inevitable.

The doorbell rang shortly after 3. And there she was, looking more tired than he’d ever seen her.

“I’m going back, Hans.”

Behind his calm façade, Hans shattered. “Yes, I had thought you might.”

Sylvia avoided his eyes. “I’m sorry I yelled at you last night.”

Hans smirked. “No, you’re not.”

She chuckled. “You’re right. I’m not.”

He grabbed a cigar box from the entryway table. “Your papers. Should you need them.”

“I don’t think I will. But thanks.”

A silence.

“Sylvia, someone is still targeting you. I don’t want….I’m afraid you’re still in danger.”

“Bunny’s taking me directly to our commander,” she replied matter-of-factly. “In Soissons. Safer out of town.”

“That’s wise.”

Another pause. Hans suspected Sylvia didn’t want to leave his doorway.

“Also…thank you. For saving me. For all of it.” At last, she met his eyes. Hers were soft, and sad. “I’ll miss you.”

Hans’ entire being ached for her. “I don’t regret saving you.”

“I know.”

Unspoken words hung between them, delicate as dust motes in the sun. What else could there be between a Jew and a Nazi?

“I have a train to catch. Goodbye, Hans,” she finally said.

“Goodbye, Sylvia,” he whispered, watching the center of his universe walk away without him, disappearing into the Paris foot traffic.

He swallowed his dread, and walked back into his now empty townhouse, where her absence was louder than an air raid siren. He paused in the foyer, where his SS cap hung on a peg. He noticed the ticking of the ornate grandfather clock.

He had paperwork to do. There was that.

On his way up to his study, he found his dress uniform from the night before, unceremoniously draped over a chair. Unseemly, for an officer of his rank to live in a messy house. He really did need to replace Marta.

Then, picking up the pants, he felt something in the pocket:

The paper Van Barenboim’s secretary had slipped him before the ceremony. He unfolded it.

A list of German infiltrators’ cover names.

Hans was in his car in seconds.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Alain glanced up from his crossword to see the familiar Standartenführer heading for his newsstand, he rolled his eyes. But he quickly registered something was different. He’d never seen Landa in this kind of hurry.

He appeared at the counter, sweat dripping from beneath his SS cap. “Alain, what is the name of your commander?”

“Edward Scott, why?” Landa’s demeanor was scaring him. “Is Sylvia in trouble?”

Without a word, Hans held a list of names up to Alain’s face. Three lines down, there it was:

EDWARD SCOTT

“What does this mean?” Alain asked. “Are these…what are you doing?”

Hans shoved the paper back into this pocket. “She may hate me for it, but I’m saving her one more time.” He hurried back to his car, idling at the curb.

“Well then, wait for me,” Alain shouted, and yanked down the awning. Copies of Signal tumbled to the pavement. “I’m coming, too!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, this one took multiple rewrites. Hope you enjoy.


	16. Pursuit

Hans was beginning to sweat in his leather driving gloves. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and scanned the crowd pouring into the Gare du Nord train station.

What was taking that foolish boy so long? His heart beat a violent staccato. They were rapidly losing time.

At last, the lanky figure of Alain Fournier appeared, brochure in hand, and hopped into the Standartenführer’s passenger seat.

“Have a pleasant stroll?” Hans snipped.

“Running would attract attention, and some of us aren’t SS.” Alain calmly replied. “Drive. I’ll read the timetables.”

Bristling at this impertinence, Hans loudly peeled out of the station.

Alarm raised his eyebrows, then, clearing his throat, opened the brochure.

“Three stops before Soissons: Saint-Mard, Crépy-en-Valois, and Villers. Their train left 10 minutes ago. I reckon we can beat them to Saint-Mard if we avoid traffic.”

“How long do we have?”

“Sixteen minutes.”

Another burst of speed inspired Alain to grab the door handle for dear life.

With most ordinary French forbidden to drive, occupation traffic was considerably lighter than it had been, the faintest of silver linings. The little Mercedes wove in and out of lanes, engine droning aggressively with every lurch.

Alain swallowed and glanced over several times before speaking. “Herr Landa.”

“Yes?”

“As you can imagine... Well. I haven’t been in a vehicle since I arrived in France.” He was rather pale.

“Young man, if you’re going to vomit in my car, you’d better lift your feet and aim with care." Hans never took his eyes off the road. "We are not stopping for your gastrointestinal discomfort.”

Alain settled back against the leather seat and breathed deeply.

Hans ran a thousand calculations against his knowledge of Paris motorways. Not one route was a sure shot, not this time of day. Damn.

“Ten minutes.”

“How on earth could you know that without a watch?” Hans demanded.

Alain shrugged. “I can do more than wash dishes and sell magazines. You don’t know much about me.”

“Yes, but I understand you’re quite an exceptional man.” Hans’ tone was that of a door opening.

The young man sized him up for a second. “Is that what you’ve heard about me?”

“I’ve _heard_ nothing, Monsieur Fournier. I’m merely a thorough observer. I am a detective, after all.”

“Ah.” Alain sighed. “And here I was, in a fast car, feeling _so very _butch.”

A beat.

“You won’t...”

“Certainly, I won’t.” Hans meant it.

Here the boulevard curved around the bottom of a hill and to both men’s immediate dismay, a train crossing. And the striped guard arm was lowering into place.

“Ironic,” Alain chirped. “It’s not our train, is it?”

“No,” Hans resigned. “Freight.”

“Oh, freight.”

A few tense seconds. There were some trains that left Paris these days with a particularly terrible cargo. One-way passengers, in cattle cars.

As the engine slowly hauled itself into view, every car laden with coal, neither spoke their immense relief.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Gestapo officer at the station glanced at Sylvia’s papers, then broke into a knowing smile. She nodded in acknowledgement. She was still “Ilse Bronner,” the Standartenführer’s future bride, and what the Germans didn’t know could only protect her.

Thank god, the rendezvous with their commandant was out of town, which meant a train ride. No better way to process a breakup than watching the countryside roll past.

A breakup? She couldn’t honestly call it that. They had just been playing pretend. Their secret world had been thrust into the cold light of reality, where it didn’t stand a chance. It was time to face the truth.

Like the fact that she was not 25, as her papers stated (the SOE thought her true age would be suspiciously old for a waitress) but pushing 30, unmarried, with no real prospects. She felt fortunate to have work to do, a mission, but if she survived the war…she’d just be a spinster. She wasn’t especially good-looking, had little interest in children, and after the implosion of her last serious relationship, even less interest in becoming a housewife. But what was the alternative? Go back to the office and type letters for the rest of her life?

When the US entered the war, Sylvia had signed up as a WAC. It promised adventure, a chance to be independent, to make a difference in the world. Peter Blackwell of the British Special Operations Executive, her original commander, came across her file and recruited her for his new, ad-hoc undercover unit in Paris. He saw something in her the US military had missed, and encouraged her in his gruff, no-nonsense way. Peter’s mentorship convinced her she had what it took. 

But Peter was gone, for whatever reason. Instead, she would be debriefed by Edward, who had never thought much of her. Would he even believe there was a mole? What on earth would she say about those weeks with Hans? What if he’d seen that issue of Das Megafon?

She glanced over at Bunny, already buried in a fashion magazine, her long legs elegantly crossed. Bunny had slept with plenty of men, and blown half their heads off right after. Maybe it was easier to guard your heart when you looked like that.

She turned back to the window, and wondered when that Allied invasion of France would finally turn up.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The freight crossing cost them a deadly four minutes. There was no making Saint-Mard now.

“On to Crépy-en-Valois.” Alain’s finger slid down the timetable. “We have 26 minutes.”

As they headed out of the city, traffic began to thin, and the sun re-emerged from the clouds, an omen that they were going to make it, and all would be well.

“Let’s review the plan. I will drop you at the curb opposite the station at Crépy. You will purchase a ticket and board the train.” Hans pressed his pocketwatch into Alain’s hand. “Exceptional mind or no, take this. You will have approximately 12 minutes to find Sylvia and her companion—“

“Bunny,” Alain supplied.

Hans waved her away. “—find them and convince them to disembark at Villers. I will follow the train there, and should you need more time, I will continue to Soissons where I expect to take all three of you back to Paris. Ideally, we depart from Villers. Is this agreeable to you?”

“Right-o. But, shouldn’t you board the train? You’re a hell of a lot less suspicious roaming from car to car.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Alain blinked. “Herr Landa, did something happen between you and Sylvia?”

Hans’ delay gave him away. “Whatever gave you that idea.”

“For starters, she’s returning to a unit she knows is compromised, rather than stay with you.”

Hans measured his words carefully. “Monsieur Fournier, Sylvia and I, regrettably, found ourselves to be incompatible.”

“You two? Incompatible? I simply can’t imagine why.”

“Not for that reason. I’m afraid I am not, nor can I hope to be, the man she needs.”

Alain was stunned to see the cold Standartenführer’s eyes glistening with tears.

“Goodness, I didn’t to mean to pry. It’s none of my business.”

“You will board the train, and find the girls, then. Yes?”

“Yes, I will,” Alain replied, rotating Hans’ pocketwatch in his shaking hands. It had his initials, HL, and a Nazi eagle and swastika engraved on the back.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Stop thinking about him,” Bunny snapped.

Sylvia lifted her head from the cool glass of the window. “Huh?”

“You were thinking about him. Stop it.”

“I wasn’t,” she lied, badly.

Bunny frowned over her magazine. “He’s a Nazi, a stone-cold murderer, old enough to be your father, and happily jumped in a closet with me while you waited. Get over him, or I will break every bone in your body. Okay?”

Sylvia chuckled. “I’m working on it.”

The train slowed to a halt at Crépy-en-Valois. A flood of German soldiers boarded, taking nearly every available seat.

A young SS with pale blue eyes took the seat next to Bunny. The single stripe on his black lapel patch identified him as a Stormtrooper. Bunny side-eyed him over the magazine.

As the train began to move, the Stormtrooper “accidentally” bumped her arm. “Oh mademoiselle, my deepest apologies.”

Sylvia fought the impulse to roll her eyes.

Bunny, always on the hunt, shot him a saucy glance. “I hope you’re handier with a rifle than an elbow.”

“I always hit my mark,” the soldier beamed. “Where are you ladies off to?”

“Visiting an old school friend,” Sylvia piped up. They did _not_ have time for this. “Afraid we’re not riding very far.”

“Oh no, our stop isn’t for another 30 minutes, Ilse. We have loads of time.” Bunny’s smile was a warning.

“Ilse?? Ilse Bronner? I thought I recognized you!” The Stormtrooper practically leaped up to kiss her hand. “Or should I say, Ilse Landa? Warmest congratulations!”

“You’re very kind,” she replied, surreptitiously wiping the back of her hand on the seat.

A brief, awkward pause.

Bunny stretched and re-crossed her legs in a lazy, deliberate fashion. The Stormtrooper openly stared.

“How about you, trooper?” she purred. “Where do you get off?”

“Heading back to the eastern front. A week in Paris just isn’t enough, don’t you agree, Ilse?”

Sylvia nodded, wishing she had a magazine to hide behind.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They had underestimated evening traffic out of the city. By the time the black Mercedes pulled into the station parking lot at Crépy-en-Valois, they were cutting it much too close for Hans’ comfort. The train’s whistle could already be heard.

Alain dashed into the station. A minute later, the train pulled in, blocking Hans’ view of the platform. With the engine idling, he scanned the passing windows for a glimpse of her. Nothing.

She wouldn’t be happy to see him this time. She would shrink from him, avoid eye contact, make excuses to leave as soon as possible. It would hurt like hell, and he deserved it.

The train pulled away, rapidly gaining speed.

Hans’ heart nearly stopped. Alain was running back to the car.

“There was a line at the ticket counter,” he puffed, slamming the door. “We have to try at Villers.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“The next stop will be Soissons. Please gather all belongings before leaving the train,” the announcement came, first in French, then German.

“Can I look you up next time I’m in Paris?” the Stormtrooper pleaded.

“Sure thing, kid. I’m at the Hotel Montmartre,” Bunny fibbed. “I’m Denise Latour.”

“And I’m Erich Roschmann, SS.” He pressed his lips to her hand for much too long.

Sylvia was relieved she didn’t have to help Bunny shove a body through the latrine window.

Shrugging on her jacket, she couldn’t help but think about Hans, the invisible thread that bound them spooling out behind her as the train raced east. She wondered how doing the right thing could feel so awful.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Forget Villers,” Hans nearly shouted, tearing down the motorway at nearly 90 kph. “We intercept them at Soissons. We can’t afford to miss this time.”

Alain nodded. The engine of Hans Landa was firing on every cylinder and it was both marvelous and frightening to behold. Best to stay out of the way.

After several minutes, Hans spotted another black Mercedes, the same government issue model as his own, in the rearview. Two SS, plainly visible in their distinctive black uniforms with cross-belts, sat in front. Right on their tail.

“Herr Landa…”

“Behave normally.” Hans smoothly pulled ahead via the next lane. “Let’s not give them a reason to follow us.”

“Behaving as normally as possible, considering.” There was a tremor in Alain’s voice. “Your men?”

“I’m SD, intelligence branch. We’ve had the good fortune to cross paths with _Einsatzgruppen_.”

No translation needed. Einsatzgruppen were paramilitary death squads. While most of the Nazi regime murdered with pen strokes or commands, they did the actual killing, at close range, sometimes massacring hundreds of civilians at a time. Alain was a well-trained agent, but that name struck terror into far braver men. He began to bounce his knee.

First one exit, then a second passed, and the Einsatzgruppen continued to follow them. Hans gritted his teeth.

Then a third and fourth exit passed, and still the other Mercedes remained, close as a shadow.

“We have twelve minutes to make Soissons.”

Landa nodded curtly, and took a sharp left onto the off-ramp, then a right onto a northbound motorway.

The other Mercedes reappeared in seconds. There could be no doubt now.

“I assume you have a plan, Standartenführer.”

“Never assume, Alain,” Hans gently scolded. “It makes an ass out of ‘u’ and ‘me.’”

“Whoever could’ve taught you that phrase?”

Hans shifted into another gear. The engine whined uneasily as the speedometer passed 130 kph, now well above speed limit. With virtuosic focus, he passed vehicle after vehicle, hopscotching lanes with the ease of a dancer.

Sylvia. All he could think of was Sylvia. Walking into a death trap.

He slid one hand into his uniform pocket. The ring was still there.

“Time,” Hans demanded.

“Nine minutes.”

The other Mercedes was gaining on them.

Sylvia on the landing. Sylvia’s upturned face, her searching hazel eyes, so reluctant to believe.

The Einsatzgruppen sliding in behind them once more. An exit coming up.

“Monsieur Fournier, is your seatbelt securely fastened?”

“…yes.”

Horns blared as Hans cut across three lanes of traffic, narrowly avoiding a T-bone collision, to take a hard, screeching right off the motorway and onto a country by-road. The farmland flew by as they zoomed down the winding ribbon of asphalt, turn after turn, the scenery a long green smear, only slowing to turn onto a single-lane route into deep woods.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” Alain quietly gasped as the Mercedes bounced and rattled along the unpaved road. The trees were dense enough to force Hans to turn on the headlights.

“We’ll cut through the forest and emerge north of Soissons.” Hans’ voice had become hard and mechanical. “Time.”

“Five minutes. Herr Landa…what’s our plan B, if we don’t—“

“We will.”

Sylvia’s wry smirk. The smell of her hair.

They pressed deeper into the forest, picking up speed again as the road became smoother.

“Three minutes.”

Sylvia’s warmth against his. Her, nestled into him in the dark. Safe.

Hans flattened the gas pedal.

The path seemed to be winding out of the woods now, as more and more sun shone through the canopy.

Suddenly, three figures in the road ahead.

Hans slammed the brakes. The Mercedes skidded some distance in the dirt, coming to a hard stop just before three men with machine guns. Fatigues, dog tags. One in just an undershirt. The men blocked the headlight beams with their arms.

“DON’T SHOOT!” Alain yelled.

“How ‘bout you turn off yer high beams so we can see what we’re lookin’ at?” came a thick Southern drawl.

Hans gulped.

Americans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this chapter is worth the longer-than-average wait!
> 
> (I've been dying to send Hans and Alain on an adventure together. I've also been looking forward to that twist at the end. Hooray!)
> 
> Thanks again to everyone leaving kudos and kind comments. It really means the world to a writer!


	17. Enemy Lines

Bunny’s heels clicked on cobblestones as she led Sylvia down the winding medieval streets of Soissons. It was an ancient city, ringed by the ruins of cathedrals and monasteries. Soaring above the little town, with their gothic arches and towers, it was impossible to tell which skeletal remains had been bombed in the previous war, or simply crumbled over time. The effect was intensely eerie.

They turned onto a narrow cul-de-sac, where the rows of little houses had identical wooden shutters. The little street terminated in a high stone wall overtaken by ivy. It was exactly where one would post up if one didn’t want to be seen.

Bunny trotted up the steps of one house and buzzed the doorbell. Within seconds, the door opened, and they were beckoned inside.

It was a cozy little house, with low wooden ceilings and plaster walls, and at Sylvia’s estimation, at least 300 years old. A young man in a casual sweater and slacks guided them down the hall to a well-lit back room, where Edward shuffled papers at what looked like the dining table at a grandmother’s house. Two wooden chairs had been set out, and antique couches chairs lined the walls. The incongruity of furniture to setting made Sylvia’s head hurt.

“There she is,” Edward announced, gripping her hand in an aggressive shake. “The infamous ‘Ilse Bronner.’ Taken prisoner by a Standartenführer! Escaped from the officer’s own house!” The guards, posted at each door, applauded.

Sylvia blushed profusely. “I wasn’t a prisoner, really,” she started but Edward wasn’t listening.

“Sit down, sit down. We have a lot of ground to cover.” She obeyed.

“First,” Edward said, after making a few marks on a notepad. “I understand you wanted to discuss something?”

Bunny squeezed her arm for courage.

“Well,” Sylvia said, suddenly queasy with Edward’s sour face in front of her. “Just some suspicious things.”

“What suspicious things, exactly?”

“You probably know…the bookstore closing early that day I was supposed to pickup, the safe house raid, that’s all.”

“Those aren’t small things, Greta,” Bunny whispered.

Sylvia took a breath. “No, they aren’t small things. I was repeatedly put in danger by someone in this unit’s actions.” She stopped short of adding, _ and Hans Landa saved me every time. _

Edward seemed taken aback. “This unit was hand-picked by Major Blackwell, agent. Every one of us was carefully screened and vetted by the SOE. Do you think an enemy operative could’ve slipped through the cracks?”

She felt her resolve beginning to slip. “I…well…it seemed intentional. Maybe it wasn’t, but I felt targeted.”

“That’s a hell of a serious accusation to make over feelings.”

The sensation of freefall. “I really think w-we should investigate. Hans started…”

The room went silent.

“…Hans agrees with me. He thinks we may be compromised. He was looking into it, on his own. There’s a lot of evidence.”

“Agent Leventhal,” Edward began. The sound of her real name chilled her to the bone. “Are you telling me you helped an enemy officer investigate your own unit?”

She knew she’d crossed a line, but in all honesty, the line was damn near invisible these days. “I know how crazy it sounds, but he was worried for my safety. He really cares about me. I’ve been trying to convince him to defect, he’d make an amazing double agent.”

Edward’s gaze pinned her to her seat like a butterfly in a case.

“Thank you for your honesty, agent. But I’m afraid this won’t be the kind of homecoming party we had planned for you.”

The unmistakable sound of a lock turning. Then another.

In Sylvia’s peripheral vision, Bunny’s hand moved to her thigh.

“Take her to the basement,” Edward ordered. “Restrain her.”

“Excuse me?” Sylvia began to stand.

The guards rushed to her, forcing her face to the ground and her arms behind her back. She kicked and fought but they overpowered her. Someone’s hand covered her mouth.

A gunshot distracted the guards for the split second Sylvia needed to wrest free. Twisting her body away from their grasp, she grabbed the nearest chair and hurled it at her assailants.

Bunny stood over her, pistol aloft. It was then she realized Edward was on the ground in a pool of blood.

Bunny slid a knife across the floor to her, just as another guard grabbed her ankles. Adrenaline taking over, she gripped the handle, turned and slammed it into the guard’s chest with a sickening sound. He gaped in amazement, the knife protruding from his quickly darkening shirt, before dropping her legs, then slumping to the floor.

Sylvia lay there for a moment, sick with shock. She had never killed anyone before, and there was no time to process it now.

“Run!” Bunny barked, before firing a round into the other guard.

Scrambling to her feet, she tried one door, then another. Both padlocked.

Edward lay facedown, a shotgun in his outstretched hand. Sylvia took it, shot the lock to the outermost door until it opened, and tucked the shotgun into her waistband. “This way! Let’s go!”

“I’ll catch up!” Bunny shouted from the back of the room. What the hell was she trying to do? Sylvia staggered out into the dusky backyard, ducked the clothesline and swung the back gate open into the alley. The neighbors had certainly called police by now.

She could scarcely hear over the pounding of her own heart, but a minute or so later, Bunny burst out of the same door, hauling something heavy in a canvas bag.

“Go go go,” she hissed, grabbing Sylvia’s arm. “He’s not dead.”

“How?” But there would be time for questions later, if they survived this. A distant siren pierced the twilight as both women sprinted into darkness.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“DON’T SHOOT!” Alain yelled.

“How ‘bout you turn off yer high beams so we can see what we’re lookin’ at?” came a thick Southern drawl.

Hans hesitated a moment, then flicked off the headlights.

Instantly, three machine guns pointed at the windshield.

“I’M ENGLISH!” Alain tumbled out of the car. “He’s on our side, I swear!”

The Southerner sneered. “Will the friend and ally _ disguised as _a Nah-zi officer kindly step out of the vehicle?”

Hans very slowly opened the door and emerged with hands up, his face pale. “You must listen to me.”

“Colonel Hans Landa, as I live and breathe. The Jew Hunter himself.” The Southerner let out a whistle. “Catch of the fuckin’ day, boys!” 

The other men whooped excitedly.

“You don’t understand,” Hans begged. “Someone is in grave danger!”

“We ain’t interested in no Nazi sob stories,” the muscular man in an undershirt said, a Boston accent dripping from his contemptuous lips. “You’re comin’ with us.”

“The life of an American spy is at stake! I command you to let us go!” Hans’ face was desperate.

“Now, ya see, Colonel, I’m afraid your command don’t go too far here,” The Southerner quickly clapped handcuffs on a distraught Hans. “We’re Americans. Which means, my men listen to _ me, _ and do as _ I _say.”

“Excuse me,” Alain piped up, and all three Americans turned to him.

“I’m Agent Robert Dixon, SOE. Around here I’m known as Alain Fournier.” He put out a hand.

“Aldo Raine.” The Southerner gripped his hand so tightly he felt a little faint. “US Army. Whatchu doin’ ridin’ around with SS, young man?”

“Oh, I’ve heard of you! Aldo the Apache!!” Alain squeaked, too starstruck to acknowledge the question. Aldo grinned.

“Apache?” Hans sniffed. “You look as indigenous as my Aunt Hildegarde.”

Aldo bristled at this remark. “Y’all better come on back to camp and answer some questions.”

The gun muzzles pressed into their spines made it clear this was an order, not a suggestion.

Hans and Alain exchanged a loaded glance. Their mission had officially failed.

As the small party traipsed up the wooded hill, Hans nudged Alain’s arm meaningfully. Alain leaned in.

“Is Sylvia carrying a gun?” Hans whispered.

“Not that I know of, did you give her one?” Alain returned.

The older man’s brow knotted. Of course he should’ve given her a pistol. Good god.

“At least I know Bunny has one.”

“Herr Landa, if you’ve seen Bunny’s pistol, I think I know what happened with you and Sylvia.”

“Shut up!!” the Bostoner snarled. They continued in anxious silence.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Just inside the entrance of a medieval crypt just north of town, Sylvia huddled under her wool jacket, her bloodied blouse draped over her bag. She dreaded inevitably putting it back on, as she had no change of clothes, and no way to wash it.

Bunny crouched in the stone doorway, headphones on, fiddling with the massive radio set she’d swiped from Edward’s office. How she managed to fell multiple guards, escape uninjured AND steal arguably the most powerful and dangerous thing a non-German could own, blew Sylvia’s mind. Bunny was far more than “the one who seduced Nazis,” she knew that for sure.

Out of nowhere, Bunny clapped her hands in victory. “It’s working!”

“I doubt anyone’s broadcasting all the way out here,” Sylvia grumbled.

“This is the long-range model, baby!” She fiddled with the knobs, then pulled the morse key transmitter out. “Maybe we’ll just have to broadcast first.”

“You think we’re safe out here?” Sylvia was bruised and exhausted, and broadcasting was so dangerous they would almost certainly have to move again.

The redhead focused intently. “How’s your morse code, Sylvia?”

“Not great, yours?”

“I’ll have to use the dictionary,” Bunny quipped, and pulled a small square of silk out of the inside of her jacket. The morse alphabet was printed on it.

Messages were usually printed on silk, because they didn’t rustle during a patdown.

Concentrating hard, Bunny began to tap out her message. Each click of the key seemed to echo in the dank stone chamber. After what felt like an eternity, Bunny sat back and let out a sigh.

“I said, ‘Edward is down, and Majorette has a new leader’ As in, me. I got the big radio, I’m the new commandant of Majorette. That’s fair, right?” That was the official code name for their unit, Majorette. No one dared use it except for identifying oneself on the radio. “No one roger-ed yet.”

“Edward’s alive, though, right?” Sylvia asked.

“Alive enough to call me a whore as I stepped over him,” Bunny giggled. “God, he’s such a dick.”

“Being a dick doesn’t equal ‘enemy informant.’ We still don’t know for sure.” Sylvia began loosening the shoelaces from her brogues. “He may just have it out for me.”

“I dunno, honey, that ‘drag her to the basement’ maneuver was a hell of an overreaction otherwise,” Bunny remarked. “You wanna string those around the entrance?”

“Yeah.” Sylvia climbed up the stone steps and handed a loose shoelace to Bunny. The two women began to feel in the dark for twigs, shrubs, anything they could tie the laces to. Strung tight, they would trip anyone who approached.

“Are we technically traitors now?” Sylvia wondered aloud. “You shot our commandant. I stabbed an op in the chest.”

“Maybe. But If Edward’s the mole, we’re heroes.”

The women sat back and listened to the crickets for a moment.

“Let’s sleep in shifts, then. I’ll take first watch.” Sylvia grabbed Edward’s pistol and took a position by the entrance.

“Since when do you take first watch?”

“Since we picked a goddamn crypt to sleep in,” Sylvia said flatly.

Bunny spread her coat on the dirt floor. “Suit yourself. Ghosts aren’t real.”

Sylvia turned back to the night, pulled her jacket tighter around her knees, and shifted her weight on the numbingly cold steps. She would’ve given anything for Hans’ warm brass bed right now. Including her dignity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Being a radio operator was the most dangerous role for a spy in enemy territory. Gestapo radio interception units called Funkabwehr, or Radio Defense Corps, constantly monitored radio traffic and could triangulate the location of a signal within 30 minutes, sooner if they happened to be nearby. For this reason, operators were told never to broadcast longer than a few minutes, to keep messages as short as possible, and to have at least one scout on the street and one inside (both willing to kill if necessary) to protect them while broadcasting. The life expectancy of a radio operator in occupied France was *6 weeks.*
> 
> The unit Bunny stole is the classic B2 suitcase radio, issued to SOE agents starting in 1942. Search "Type 3 Mk II radio" if you'd like to see pics. (Can you tell I'm fascinated by this stuff??)
> 
> Once again, thank you so much for reading, giving kudos, and leaving comments! This story just hit 500 views, which is WILD for a long, heavily-OC fic for a supposedly dead fandom. Thank you!!


	18. The Americans

The Basterds’ camp was in a jagged, tree-lined ravine abutting the stone arches of ancient Roman aqueducts, now half buried. Tents were pitched at one end of the ravine, where the steep riverbank sheltered the camp from view. The aqueduct tunnels, with simple oil lanterns on folding tables, served as offices, and just for today, a de facto prison. 

Under the unforgiving glare of a metal clamp light, Hans Landa sat cuffed to a wooden chair. The muscular soldier from the roadblock held his machine gun inches from Hans’ head, just in case the middle-aged Nazi tried anything funny.

“If you’ve heard of us, you know we ain’t the kind who take prisoners,” Aldo Raine drawled, pacing the width of the aqueduct. “Well, we made a call to London just now, and your lil’ friend’s story checks out. He’s a bonafide SOE agent. So that puts us in an unusual situation.”

Aldo paused a moment.

“That’s Sergeant Donny Donowitz to your right, also known as _The Bear Jew_.”

“Ah, it suits him,” Hans said brightly. “He is a hirsute fellow.”

This was not the reaction Aldo wanted. He leaned menacingly into the circle of the clamp light.

“Donny favorite pastime is beating Nah-zis to death with a Louisville Slugger. See, that’s the way we handle your kind. The only, and I mean _only_, reason your head ain’t spattered on the ground out there like chicken shit, is because Agent Fournier” — Aldo pronounced it “forn-yay” — “says you wanna help our side.”

“That’s correct,” Hans replied calmly.

Aldo straightened. “We got a saying, where I come from. If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and lays big ol’ duck eggs, it’s a goddamn duck. So, when I hear a Nah-zi wants to switch sides, I call bullshit.”

“A fair assumption.” Hans shifted his weight, drawing a glare from Donny.

“However…to be honest with ya, a man of your rank, with your security clearance, could be mighty useful to us,” Aldo continued. “You could also be pulling my leg to save your filthy Nah-zi behind, and just waitin’ to kill us at the first opportunity. So, what I need to know right now, is what makes a Jew-hatin’, goose-steppin’, Gerry shit-weasel like you wanna betray your country?”

Hans took a deep breath. “There’s a girl. An American spy.”

Donny snorted.

Aldo looked tickled. “A girl??”

“American, yes, but she was recruited by SOE, in Fournier’s unit, ‘Majorette.’ Call London back and ask about Sylvia Leventhal. Thanks to you, she may be dead or imprisoned by now,” Hans said with barely concealed animosity. 

“Leventhal?” Donny repeated, incredulous. 

“Yes. Jewish.”

The Americans exchanged glances.

“Her unit was compromised some months ago. She was in tremendous danger when I found her, so I sheltered her in my home as long as I could. As a Standartenführer in the SS, there aren’t many looking over my shoulder, so I made it my business to discover the informant. And naturally, I did. In fact, we were en route to prevent her meeting the mole in Soissons when we encountered your little roadblock.”

“She must be some girl, goddamn,” Aldo laughed.

Hans wasn’t laughing. “She is.”

Aldo strode further into the aqueduct and had a few words with the radio man, out of earshot.

Donny’s nostrils flared. “If this Jewish girl is out there, we’ll save her. But I’ll still beat the shit out of ya.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Hans mumbled.

Both men turned at the sound of footsteps. Aldo strode toward them, and slapped a legal pad and pen on the desk with great indignation.

“I’ll be damned, Donny. Agent Leventhal is real, too.”

“Of course she’s real,” Hans snipped. “Now if you don’t mind, release me so I may save her life.”

“Not so fast, Landa.” Aldo squinted. “London says they ain’t heard from her since March. Presumed dead.”

“Which is precisely when the German infiltrator took control of Majorette, and began attempting to get rid of her. She was in my care from that point. Ironically, it seems her involvement with me was the cause of this hostility, as no other agent was targeted.”

“If you’re so gung ho about protectin’ our spies, why didn’t you go to the Allied lines and surrender?”

“Lieutenant,” Hans smirked. “Why would I trust her safety to the staggering incompetence of SOE when I could do a much better job myself?”

Aldo ruminated on a thought for a few moments, before spitting it out. “Alright, Landa, s’pose we make some kinda deal.”

“I am open to negotiation.”

Donny laughed again.

Aldo pressed on. “I was thinkin’, you give us some intel. The good shit, high-level intel that we can use. In return, we devote some resources to finding your Jewish girlfriend.”

Hans sighed. “Aldo, with all due respect to your team of…bastards, finding people is my specialty. Allow me to find Sylvia.”

“Yeah, I know your nickname,” Aldo drawled, stepping closer to the chair. “But seein’ as you’re our prisoner, you don’t get to make that call. And seein’ as we are keepin’ your cocksuckin’ Nah-zi ass alive, against every lick o’ sense we got, you better think damn hard how you’re gonna earn your keep.”

Hans blinked. “Oh, I’ll certainly help you. I have no great loyalty to the Reich.”

“Is that so.”

“Absolutely. But the longer we sit here, the greater the chance she’s been tortured or killed.”

Aldo nodded at Donny to stand back, and with a grunt, began to unlock Hans’ cuffs.

“I knew I could count on you to see reason,” Hans said with a tight-lipped smile.

“Don’t get excited. I just got work to do, and you’re sittin’ in my chair.”

A small tent was pitched at the opposite end from the soldiers’ sleeping quarters, and two men were assigned to guard it. And thus, the Basterds took their first prisoner.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

The next day, Hans’ request to make a phone call to SS headquarters was granted. After all, he was useless to the Allies if anyone suspected he’d been captured. So Hans, Aldo, and Wilhelm Wicki (to translate) bundled into a truck and driven to the main communications site, an old sod farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Inside, radio keys and typewriters alike chattered and clicked in a frantic chorus.

With armed guards posted at both doors, and Aldo and Wicki listening in, Hans dialed 84 Avenue Foch. “Ah, Barenboim! It’s Landa!” he exclaimed, and with practiced ease, began to spin gossamer bullshit in his native tongue.

“He says, he is investigating a Resistance circuit and hit an unforeseen obstacle,” Wicki whispered to Aldo.

Hans began to pace the length of the telephone wire.

“He says he lost track of an agent, a very significant one, and will be away from Paris for a few days,” Wicki continued.

Aldo watched Hans gesture theatrically to his invisible audience. “A few days. Like hell.”

“He says it’s of utmost importance, and he’ll return as soon as circumstances allow.”

“Heh. Call me ‘Mr. Circumstances,’” Aldo chuckled.

Hans appeared to be listening intently to the other end. “Ja….ja.” He glanced back at Aldo and Wicki, made a ‘hurry up’ motion to Barenboim, then replied in a plaintive voice.

“He says, pity about your wife, and her health. May the angels in heaven protect her.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Aldo muttered.

Hans seemed to be having trouble ending the conversation. 

“He says,” Wicki paused to listen, “...he says he needs to free up the line. He needs to go, and... goodbye now.”

Hanging up with a flourish, Hans proclaimed, “And what’s more, gentlemen, every word of that was entirely true!”

Aldo clapped slowly, and stood. “Now, gitch’er ass back in the truck.”

After a silent, bumpy ride back to the Basterds’ camp, Hans was uncuffed and shooed back into his dismal tent, where only a thin mattress, a pitiful blanket and a single lamp awaited him. 

Hans eased himself onto the mattress, removed his boots, and lay down. He was grateful for the solitude. Folding his hands across his stomach, he quietly dissolved into his mind.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

With each day on the run, ‘Ilse Bronner’ looked less and less like the photo on her papers. Nevertheless, the German cigar box travelled with her, tucked in her bag which she then stashed in haystacks, used as a pillow in crumbling ruins, or on the damp ground. 

Every night, Bunny broadcast the same message: “Rabbit leads parade into heaven.” Hopefully, if intercepted by another member of Majorette, they’d understand Bunny had declared herself de facto leader of the circuit, and was moving north. With no way to distribute a one-time pad, Bunny had to broadcast unencrypted, an enormous risk. But they had begun to pick up encrypted broadcasts, almost certainly from the guerrilla Allied troops rumored to be camping in the forest. 

Their best hope was to push into the woods, and pray they found the Allies before the Germans found them.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------

After a few days, pilfered fruit and vegetables weren’t cutting it anymore. They would have to take a risk and knock on a door.

The bedraggled women eyeballed a particular farmhouse for hours, watching the elderly couple shuffle through their daily chores. The clothesline indicated the couple had no children. 

Their stomachs were past growling. They needed to eat, today.

“We could just sneak some eggs,” Bunny whispered. “That henhouse is wide open.”

“They have geese, Bunny. You ever fought a goose before?”

“I’d snap its neck! Then we’d have eggs for breakfast and a goose dinner.”

Sylvia rolled her eyes. Bunny might know weapons and radios, but this was Sylvia’s time to shine.

She splashed cold spring water on her face, combed her hair out, then pulled on her wool beret. She tried a smile in Bunny’s compact mirror. But no matter how charming she managed to be, if these farmers happened to be German sympathizers, this could be their last stop.

Three firm, but polite knocks. Several seconds passed, then the door opened revealing a plump woman in a ragged house-dress and apron. Her “Bonjour” was more of a statement than a greeting.

“Bonjour,” Sylvia returned. “My sister and I are passing through. We wouldn’t dare impose, but we have nowhere--”

“Come in, then,” the woman blustered. “Don’t stand out there attracting attention.”

Sylvia squeezed Bunny’s arm excitedly. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------

The farmer and his wife didn’t talk much, perhaps out of respect for the girls’ predicament, or just unused to having company. Sylvia was relieved to not have to make small talk in French, to strangers who may or may not realize they were sheltering enemies of the state.

After wonderful hot baths, a filling dinner, and hanging up their tub-washed dresses to dry by the fire, the women crowded into a single feather bed.

“Is that you gurgling?” Sylvia murmured. It was so quiet in the country they could hear each others’ digestive noises.

_'Pardonez moi_._" _ Bunny flopped over to face the opposite wall. “My stomach hasn’t worked this hard in a while.”

“Well, turn over if you need to fart.”

In retaliation, the redhead yanked the quilt so hard Sylvia was completely uncovered.

“Damnit, Bunny!!!”

“Shh, don’t wake them up.” Bunny tossed the quilt back over. “Tuck yourself in so you don’t get uncovered.”

“It’s those damn long legs of yours, hogging all the real estate,” Sylvia giggled. What a luxury to fight over a blanket after a week sleeping rough.

A few seconds of silence, warmth, comfort.

“Bunny,” Sylvia whispered. “Where are we broadcasting tomorrow?”

“Let’s get over the ridge and see how far we are from the woods. We’ll put out a signal there and wait for a response.”

“And if we don't get one?”

“We move into the woods and try again. It sounded like we’re close to their camp.”

Back to the wild, back to curling up like a bug on the cold, hard ground. Sylvia was exhausted but she almost couldn’t bear to fall asleep, and miss hours of repose in a warm bed.

She couldn’t help but think of Hans, spreading his wool blanket on the ground that brisk March morning. The twigs snapping under her feet, her hands cuffed behind her back, thinking these were her last moments alive. That memory seemed to belong to another lifetime.

Perhaps she had been too hasty in leaving him. No sense denying it: she had fallen in love with him, a ridiculous lapse of judgement. But what if she had stayed, smoothed things over? What if they talked it out, agreed to be exclusive, made it official? He was practically a double agent, anyway.

_Do you even hear yourself? _another, clear-headed part of her replied. He’d never renounced Nazism, or the Reich.

His affection for her was 100% selfish desire. And yet here she was, conjuring his warmth, his smell, the wicked crease of his smile.

She couldn’t help a little flush of warmth, recalling how uninhibited she became in his bed. What a pity she could never come apart in his hands like that again. She was sure no other man would ever measure up.

Uncomfortably turned on, and unable to do anything about it, she sulkily stared at the ceiling until sleep took over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** If it isn't obvious by now, I'm playing fast and loose with both the Inglourious Basterds timeline and actual history here. Allied troops hadn't invaded France as early as 1943...and the movie has them operating in France in spring of 1944.  
Another note on real life accuracy vs. the movie: I love the camp setup they have in the movie, and tried to research the location. Unfortunately, those stone tunnels are actually a fort outside of Berlin!! I came up with ancient Roman aqueducts as a France-appropriate solution. But just so you know...the Basterds' camp in "rural France" was actually Germany!
> 
> Thank you for the kind comments and kudos. Life is incredibly busy right now but I'll get the next chapter up as soon as I can!


	19. The Captured

For Hans’ first official act of treason against the Third Reich, he offered Aldo a list of known German infiltrators in French resistance units. He gave one name particular emphasis: “Edward Scott.”

Aldo conferred with SOE, who were reluctant to believe one of their best and brightest could be a German informant, but eventually agreed to a plan: the Basterds and British intelligence would each send a couple of their men to a circuit meeting on the outskirts of Paris, ostensibly to take part in Resistance activities. Eventually, they would pull Edward aside, incapacitate him, and bring him to a nearby safe house (preferably alive, for interrogation.) 

It was a risky maneuver, but Hans assured them Edward had no reason to be suspicious. After all, Alain was the only agent who knew his secret, and Alain hadn’t seen him in over a week. Hans was confident Edward wouldn’t suspect a thing.

Hans also gave Aldo a wallet-sized portrait of Sylvia from several cover identities ago: her file photo, which he’d pilfered from SS archives shortly after pulling her from the rubble. It was worn at the edges from months in his wallet. 

“Her hair will be lighter, and shorter. But this is Sylvia. If she is present, I wish to be informed immediately.” He seemed reluctant to let go of the photo. 

Aldo held it in the light, her eyes burning through the matte finish in a way that unnerved him. He was beginning to understand what had befallen the mighty Jew Hunter.

“I don’t do a lot of, ya know, spy stuff,” Private Smithson Utivich commented, shrugging on a beat-up civilian jacket. He was a small, blandly handsome young man with a circumspect air. “My French is pretty bad, too.”

“Don’t matter. Stiglitz’ll have your back all the way.” Aldo handed him a Colt 1911 pistol. “Fully loaded. But we need that sonofabitch alive.”

“Save that lecture for Stiglitz,” Smithson chuckled, tucking the pistol into his trousers.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Alain approached the dingy little tent, and nodded at the armed guards, who nodded in return. 

Alain was in a strange limbo with the Basterds; they were absolutely sure he was a British operative. They were also very aware that he had arrived in an SS officer’s car. There was one big “if”: Landa’s intentions, as yet unproven, and that all-important question hung over Alain’s head like the sword of Damocles.

He raised a fist to knock, then realizing he couldn’t knock on canvas, awkwardly lowered his arm. He cleared his throat.

“Come in, Alain,” Hans called from inside. 

Alain ducked inside the canvas flap. “How did you know-” 

“Come, sit.” Hans patted the other end of the little mattress. Alain carefully lowered his lanky frame to the ground and sat.

“Not too terrible,” the young man remarked, taking in his surroundings. Hans now had a stack of books and newspapers, a little camp stove with a percolator, and multiple changes of clothes. A heavy, Army-issue blanket now covered the bed, and his SS uniform lay neatly folded on a piece of cardboard. 

Hans made a sweeping gesture. “The spoils of cooperation.” 

“Herr Landa, did they tell you -”

“Yes, I am well aware. They departed for Paris an hour ago.” Hans leaned over and lit a small camp stove, and placed a percolator on the burner. “Coffee?”

Alain shifted. “Uh, sure.”

The percolator hissed as flames roared to life beneath it.

“She could be there tonight,” Alain said.

“Yes, I gave them a photo.” 

“Not THAT photo, I presume.” The Megafon scandal, quickly squashed by the Reich, was still fresh in both minds.

“Gott, no, her SOE portait.” Hans neglected to mention it was the only photo he had of her now. An immense sadness came over him. 

Alain felt the change in air pressure. “If anyone can come out of this alright, you know it’s Sylvia.”

Hans gazed straight ahead at the canvas wall. “Tell me about her.”

Alain was caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

“You trained with her, did you not?”

The percolator began to bubble.

“Well, yes, I did. She was...she wasn’t the top of the class, really. She had a tendency to question things. Bit of a thorn in the instructors’ sides.”

A wistful smile curled across Hans’ face.

“We sat next to each other for most of the lectures. Not a lot of women, as you can imagine. She was hard as nails, though. The boys figured that out right quick. No one messed with her.”

“...go on.”

“Well...I remember one night, we went to dinner after training, a bunch of us, all bravado and derring-do, talking about what we’d do in France. We were all gonna be heroes, obviously. And she didn’t say a word until almost everyone had gone home. She just looked at me and said, ‘Aren’t you so fucking scared?’ We were friends after that.”

The percolator’s hiss modulated to a squeal, and Landa got up to tend to the coffee. Hugging his skinny knees, Alain watched one of the most feared men in France kneel on the grass to scoop instant coffee into two tin cups.

“One spoon per man,” he explained, stirring first his own coffee, then Alain’s. 

“Cheers.” Alain clinked his tin cup against Hans’, blew on the steaming liquid, sipped, and scowled. It was better than what passed for coffee in occupied Paris, but worse, in that he suddenly remembered how good real coffee could be.

A few awkward slurps later, Alain drummed up the courage. “Herr Landa...why did you become a Nazi?”

Hans’ eyes crinkled in amusement. “Why did you become an SOE agent?”

“Frankly, to take down people like you.”

“Ah.” Hans cradled his tin cup in both hands. “Do you feel you have the power to do that?”

“I do. Perhaps not individually, but all of us together? Yes.”

“Suppose you, individually, had the opportunity to gain power, the kind of power that could sway wars and change history. You would not take it?”

“Well, Herr Landa, that’s where we differ. I don’t want that kind of power.”

“But you see, I do. It’s a little quirk of mine, I have always been terribly ambitious. The easiest route was to join the police, but my village offered little in the way of career advancement, so I left for Graz. Then I outgrew Graz, so I moved on to Vienna. I worked diligently, became the best detective in Vienna, and when the Germans came, they recognized my talents. The opportunity I had been waiting for appeared, an opportunity worthy of my abilities. So I joined the SS.”

“And betrayed your own country.”

Hans waved as if to clear the air. “What is a country? Meaningless. A country is an arbitrary set of lines that will inevitably be redrawn. Austria is now part of Germany, just as France is now part of Germany. Nations rise and fall, young man, and all wars result in a winner and loser. You must draw and redraw your own lines carefully, so you end up on the winning side.”

Alain studied Hans for a minute. “You don’t believe in anything, do you? Really believe in say, right and wrong.”

“What do you mean, ‘believe in,’ as a child believes in Father Christmas? I don’t deny the possibility of an inflexible moral truth, but I ask you this, Alain: if there is a universal code of right and wrong, or dare I say, a divine power overseeing it, why have I not been punished? Rather, why have I continued to be rewarded for my objectively immoral actions?”

“I...I...don’t have an answer for that.”

Hans took a long sip of his coffee. “If there were a God, perhaps he would stop me.”

“I think you’re supposed to feel bad about doing wrong, and stop yourself,” Alain answered shakily.

“Ah, there’s the problem. Why should I stop? I have everything I want.”

“Not everything,” Alain said flatly, standing. “Thank you for the coffee, Standartenführer.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me?”

“What?”

“The answer is yes, I do love her.”

Alain paused at the entrance. “Oh. Well, the question has changed: are you capable of loving anyone but yourself?”

With that, the younger man slipped out of the tent, leaving Hans alone.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning was clear and bright. The girls woke early, thanked their hosts, and crossed the dew-dampened meadow, larks singing overhead. 

Beyond the farm, they scaled the ridge facing the edge of the forest, and chose a spot sheltered by trees. Bunny tossed the radio wire over a cedar branch for maximum reception. Every few minutes, she scanned the frequencies, top to bottom, then shut off the radio. The battery was running down, and there was no telling when they could replace it.

Bunny figured, if they were nearer the supposed Allied camp, they’d eventually pick something up, and stronger than before. So she scanned, waited, and scanned again. This went on for hours.

The sun was warm, much warmer than it had been and Sylvia began to feel dangerously sleepy. She nestled her face into her arm, her hair fanned across the ground.

Suddenly, Bunny was shaking her. She groaned in irritation. 

“Listen!” Bunny hissed, pressing the headset against her ear. An onslaught of beeps, loud and clear.

“Let’s find ‘em,” Sylvia said, stretching deeply and slinging her bag across her shoulder once more. 

Bunny packed up as quickly as she could, and in a few minutes, the girls were picking their way down the ridge toward the beckoning woods.

It was distinctly cooler under the forest canopy, and the sloping terrain made the hike trickier. Bunny, with the heavy radio suitcase, stumbled multiple times. 

After about two hours, Sylvia braced herself against a tree trunk, panting. She heard Bunny set the radio down with a ‘thunk.’

“Listen,” she whispered. 

Faint voices, filtering through the trees. 

“Oh thank god,” Bunny moaned.

“We don’t know who they are yet.”

Sylvia moved towards the sound, carefully stepping on roots and stones to make as little noise as possible. She spotted a dry river bed snaking along the bottom of the hill. 

Beckoning to Bunny to join her, she crept along the edge of the riverbed, pausing occasionally to listen. 

Eventually, the riverbed bent, and widened. Crouching by the edge, the women froze and listened hard. They could hear distinct voices now, but couldn’t discern the language. A smell of campfire carried on the breeze.

“We gotta get close enough to see,” Sylvia whispered. Staying as low as she could, she slipped behind one tree, then another, finally peeking over the edge of the ravine. There were tents ahead, cooking smells, and there - a lone sentry at the bottom of the riverbed, clutching a rifle. There was something around his waist.

Oh. _ Scalps. _Sylvia sat back on her heels as several pieces clicked into place. 

Very slowly, she stood to full height, hands above her head. 

“Hey there, soldier,” she beckoned. The young man wheeled around, rifle pointed, then lowered again as he got an eyeful. A woman?

Bunny, heeding the signal, excitedly hurried to join her. 

“Who are you?” the sentry demanded, head swiveling between the two girls.

“SOE. Americans,” Bunny gushed breathlessly. “I’ve never been so happy to see a Basterd!”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Aldo and Omar stood near the entrance of the aqueduct tunnel used for storage, now abuzz as every other man scrambled to make the women comfortable. 

“Is everything alright in the SOE?” Omar asked, concerned.

“Ain’t the slightest idea, but this sure is a coincidence.” Aldo paused to take a pinch out of his snuffbox. “You see that radio?”

“Didn’t know the Brits trained women on the radio.”

Aldo snorted. “They don’t.”

Donny unrolled a camp mattress and sleeping bag for the tall redhead, who, judging by her body language, was _ very _appreciative.

“But this corroborates Landa’s story, doesn’t it?” Omar posited. “If Edward Scott was their commander.”

“Sure does.” 

A long moment passed.

“Wait….oh shit, Lieutenant, is that _ her?!!” _

Sylvia sat against the stone wall, sipping from a canteen, oblivious.

Aldo nodded. “Yep.”

“You gonna tell Landa she’s here?”

“_Nope _.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sylvia slept fitfully in the tunnel. Despite her exhaustion, the stones seemed to amplify every noise so that she yo-yoed between waking states. It was worse than not sleeping at all. 

Voices, men’s voices. She groggily popped her head out of the top of the sleeping bag. She could see their dim outlines near the tunnel’s opening. It must’ve been just before dawn. 

One of the voices seemed agitated. She recognized the group’s commander, Aldo, pressing him for more info in his exaggerated drawl. She made out a few specific words from the reply: “crossfire,” “restrained,” “SOE.”

She was fully awake now.

The agitated man moved closer to Aldo, and she could see a pair of headphones around his neck. A radio man. 

Sylvia slipped out of the warm sleeping bag, and silently crept nearer to listen.

“I’m just the messenger, Lieutenant,” the radio man sputtered. “I’m just telling you what I was told.”

“Well, I don’t like being told the Gestapo got my men,” Aldo hissed.

“Just one man, sir,” the radio operator supplied. 

“Yeah, and the other detained by the Brits like a goddamn zoo animal.”

“You can’t blame ‘em, Lieutenant, you know how Stiglitz gets when he sees a swastika. Like red for a bull. We can’t afford it.” 

“Preachin’ to the damn choir. But I don’t have to like it.”

Sylvia shivered in the damp cold. What the hell had happened? 

“London’s waiting to hear from us, sir.”

“Tell ‘em we’re gonna go to Paris and save Utivich.”


	20. Untrustable

The atmosphere at the Basterds’ camp crackled with tension the next morning. Not only was Private Utivich a prisoner of the SS, and almost certainly being tortured, one of SOE’s men took a bullet in the chest and had to be rushed into kitchen table surgery before dawn. Stiglitz had stayed behind in a safehouse, for however long SOE could contain him.

Their target, it turns out, had been prepared, with twice the men and firepower both in and just outside of the rendezvous. To everyone else at the meeting, Stiglitz and Utivich looked like the infiltrators. Edward had not only evaded capture, he had actually reinforced his standing within the Resistance. 

To Sylvia’s chagrin, as soon as she slipped into the breakfast line, the men immediately clammed up. 

“Excuse me…” she tapped the shoulder in front of her, belonging to a baby-faced young man who flinched to see a woman behind him. Her eyes found the name on his jacket. “...Private Hirschberg. Who is this ‘Scott,’?”

“Edward Scott, some English traitor.” Hirschberg scowled. “But you know all about that, don’tcha?”

Sylvia raised her eyebrows. “Yeah, I do, he was my commander.”

“I meant the traitor part.” The private stiffly turned around, leaving Sylvia open-mouthed.

So they had managed to find Americans who somehow knew she was a Standartenführer’s mistress. Fantastic. This was sure to be a nice, relaxing stay at their camp, then.

As the line inched forward, she peered into the pot of beans. “I’m guessing no pork in that?”

“No, ma’am,” the cook smiled, ladling a generous amount into her bowl. She thanked the cook, and began scanning the campsite for somewhere to sit. 

Away from the other men, she spied a lanky figure out of uniform. A familiar head of wavy brown hair, elbow patches on his sweater. Could it possibly be? What the hell!!?

“Alain?” she squeaked.

Alain finished wiping his glasses and slid them back on, grinning as he made out the figure hurtling towards him. She nearly knocked him to the ground with the force of her hug.

“Love of my wretched life,” Alain nearly sang, planting kisses on both cheeks. “Let’s sit before you quite literally spill the beans.”

Sylvia laughed, and joined him on a felled tree, which creaked beneath their weight. She took a bite of the beans. “Not bad, but everything’s good when you’re starving.”

"Frankly,” Alain sniffed. “When Americans feed me, I half expect you lot to bring out a gelatin mold.”

She snorted. “How did you get here? Tell me everything.”

“You first.” He seemed strangely coy.

“Okay…” She pushed the beans around the bowl, watching the watery broth rush to fill in the spaces she made. “We met Edward, it turned out to be a trap, of course, so Bunny shot him in the leg and stole his radio. We’ve been on the run ever since.”

“What I wouldn’t give to see his face,” Alain crowed.

“Ha, yeah. He was, as you Brits say, _ rather cross.” _

“How’d you find the camp?”

“Oh, Bunny followed the signal. She’s damn good at that radio, actually.” Another bite of the bland, mushy beans. “Your turn.”

Alain hesitated a moment. “Well...Hans got hold of a list of informants, with Edward’s name on it. He came to the newsstand to confirm with me, and...we tried to intercept your train. Obviously, we ran into this lot instead.” 

“Oh my god...oh my god, he really tried to save me again.” She blinked, as her stomach lurched with realization. “He’s here, isn’t he.”

“Sylvia...they made me swear not to tell you,” he began cautiously. “I know you would’ve found out sooner or later, well, sooner, knowing you--”

She stood. “Take me to him. Now.”

Alain took her by the shoulders. “I wish I could, but Aldo was afraid he’d be less cooperative if he knew you were safe.”

A sudden panic in her eyes. “The Basterds don’t take prisoners.”

“He’s alive but...trust me, wait until they bring him back to camp. You don’t want to see him like this.”

“Oh god,” she wailed, startling both of them with the intensity of her reaction. “They’re torturing him.”

“You’re lucky they didn’t kill him right away, yeah? Their entire mission is killing Nazis. That big one with the shoulders, he beats ‘em to death with a club.” Alain cupped her face in his hands. “He’s alive because my credentials checked out. He’s too valuable to kill at this point, I’m sure they’re just...blowing off steam, so to speak.”

Sylvia didn’t cry often but when she did, it was messy and undignified. Alain dabbed futilely at her face with his handkerchief. 

“Alain, you know I’m going to him no matter what,” she sniffed.

“Yeah, I know. Be careful. Don’t get on their bad side.” Alain lowered his voice. “They think Hans set them up, and they already know about you--”

“Yep, they do.” Sylvia steeled herself. “Which direction did they go?”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sound of fist meeting jaw echoed through the ravine and the forest canopy. Bound to the trunk of an oak with rope across his chest and legs, Standartenführer Hans Landa reeled with pain, as Donny Donowitz looked on.

Aldo was pouring sweat, aglow with rage. “You lying son of a bitch. Quit moanin’. We ain’t even got started yet.”

“Lieutenant,” Hans gasped, the side of his face already beginning to swell from repeated impact. “I haven’t once lied to you.”

"Then tell me how we got one man shot and another man captured by your side!”

“I don’t know,” Hans said, more firmly. “But you can’t beat out of me what isn’t there.”

“Don’t get smart, you sack o’ shit.” He raised his arm for another blow.

“STOP!!” came a pained cry. Aldo wheeled around to see Sylvia storm through the trees. The sheer force of her indignation pushed both Aldo and Donny aside.

A smile ghosted across Hans’ bloodied face.

Aldo grabbed her arm before she reached Hans. “Ma’am, we are busy here. Now, run along back to camp.”

Sylvia wrenched herself free. “He doesn’t know anything! Stop beating him!”

“Miss Leventhal, it may have slipped your mind, but we are at war.” He gave her a mocking smile. “Your boyfriend here got our man captured and an English soldier shot by sending them into a death trap, after swearin’ up and down, ‘he won’t suspect a thing.”

“We shot Edward in the leg last week,” Sylvia snarled. “I stabbed one of his guards to death. Bunny stole his radio. He had every reason to be suspicious of newcomers. You’d’ve known that last night, if you’d bothered to debrief us.”

Aldo rubbed his chin, shoved his hands in his pockets, and stared into the middle distance for some time. She was right, and goddamn was that frustrating.

“Cut him free and leave us alone a minute,” she commanded. “I’ll bring him back to camp.”

Donny shot Aldo a stunned glance. Was he gonna take that?

“Take a long, hard look at your priorities, agent,” Aldo finally snarled. “Mercy is a beautiful thing. Don’t waste it on a goddamn Nah-zi.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she hissed.

Heeding Aldo’s reluctant nod, Donny pulled out his dagger and cut the ropes. Hans slipped painfully to the ground, gasping. Sylvia went to him so quickly she didn’t notice if the men hung around to eavesdrop.

She knelt beside him, and gingerly touched his forehead. The first blush of a hideous bruise had already blossomed across his cheek and eye socket. He covered her hand with his own.

“Sylvia,” he breathed, ecstatically tasting every vowel. “I was dreaming of you, and here you are. My animal magnetism is even stronger than I thought.”

“You’re lucky I don’t smack you, too.” But her eyes were serious. “What did they do to you?”

“A fraction of what I deserve, I assure you.” 

“Hush.” She removed her cardigan and pressed it to the gash at his hairline. “Don’t argue, it’s getting too warm for sweaters anyway.”

Hans hissed through his teeth at the pressure. 

“Now hold it there until it stops bleeding,” she instructed, then slumped to the forest floor beside him. “I saw Alain, he told me what you did. Thank you.”

“And I see it was completely unnecessary." He sighed. "My brave girl.”

“Bunny’s the brave one. She shot Edward in the leg and stole a radio, that’s how we found the camp. She followed the signals. I just ran.” 

"I meant what I said.”

They sat for a moment in glorious quiet. The gentle lilt of birdsong, golden sunlight through the branches, the hum of insects, the symphony of new life in glorious spring surrounded them. It was as if time stood still, the universe bending around them, the war itself paused for just a little while.

“It feels like fate, doesn’t it?” she whispered, as if in a holy place. “Over and over, we find each other.”

“Yes, it does seem to be the case.” Hans stared ahead. “I had rather hoped otherwise, for your sake.”

Sylvia’s heart dropped like a stone. “What are you saying? You don’t want to be with me?”

“No, it would be far easier for the both of us if I didn’t. The truth is that I love you terribly. And I owe you an apology.”

“Oh, that.” She picked at a blade of grass near her other hand. “Bunny’s very good at what she does. I understand.”

“That’s not what I mean.” With some effort, Hans turned his head to face her. “I’m afraid I have shown you only a fragment of myself. For that, I am deeply sorry. I won’t have you cast your love at an illusion.”

“No, I...I understand.”

“You’ve only seen the man who sheltered you, and held you when you were afraid. Such a man is easy to love. I’m afraid you don’t really know me, Sylvia.”

She laughed, a bit forced. “Of course I know you, dummy.”

Hans closed his eyes for a moment. “You’ve forgotten who I am, dear girl. I wasn’t nicknamed ‘the Jew Hunter’ for finding you in the back alleys of Paris.”

“I know.”

“Ah, you do not. I don’t mean to condescend, but if we are to be together, you must see me, all of me.” 

Hans searched her face meaningfully, and continued. “You are good, strong-hearted, a lover of justice. You see wrong in this world and you fight to correct it. Perhaps you see the wrong in me and think you can save me. But you can’t fathom the horrors I’ve committed.”

Sylvia began to protest, but no words came.

“Look at me, Sylvia. I have murdered hundreds of people. Hundreds. Young, old, even infants. I recall many of their faces, I can remember their screams. But you must hear me when I say I have killed so many that most of them I’ve forgotten completely.”

Sylvia felt sick. “No.”

“Some of them begged for their lives. Wept. Shielded their children. Bargained for others. Showed such courage, selflessness, the very best of humanity. I killed them anyway. And I felt nothing more than if I’d swatted a fly.” 

Hans watched Sylvia crumple to the ground.

“Do I repent these actions? Perhaps I do, but it would be dishonest to say so. Naturally, I regret their effect on you. I am sorry for any pain I cause you. But am I haunted by those I’ve killed? Do I see their mutilated faces in my dreams? I do, but it may only be my selfish desire for you that dredges them from the ether. Before you, I rarely gave them a second thought.

Yes, Sylvia, I have shot women, children, in the face. I have strangled them with my own hands. I have looked into their eyes, then watched the light go out of them. I have murdered entire families at once.”

“Please stop,” she sobbed.

“No, Sylvia. Feel the impact of it. This is the entire man, the man you claim to love. These horrors will be a part of me as long as I live. I cannot be forgiven for such monstrousness; nor do I ask for it.” His voice softened. “But these are your people I’ve slain, Sylvia. Your race. Can you stomach that? Can you knowingly lay with a monster?”

Sylvia, unable to look him in the eye, wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Would you have shot me too? If you found me behind a wall?”

“Well, angel, I found you beneath a ceiling and we know how that turned out.”

“If I’d been wearing a gold star, like a good Jew? You would’ve shot me on sight.”

“Perhaps. Regardless, I knew you were an enemy.”

Her face slick with tears and snot, she finally lifted her head. “Why didn’t you kill me? Don’t say because I was beautiful.”

“You were.”

“Bullshit.”

“But you were.” Hans eyes brightened at the memory. “You were so brazenly alive under all that debris. Looking at me with such contempt, fighting to escape, you left toothmarks in my leather coat. I fell in an instant.”

“Do you know how sick that makes me? To be the one Jew you liked enough not to murder?” She struggled to maintain composure. “I don’t want to be your ‘exception,’ Hans.”

“And I don’t want to be yours, Sylvia.” He turned to face ahead again. “I don’t especially dislike Jews. In fact, I rather respect their resourcefulness. They have found quite ingenious ways of surviving, despite our best efforts to destroy them.”

“Not ‘them’, Hans. Me. My people. When you think about ‘the Jews’ you should see my face,” she stammered.

“I already do.”

Hans began to rummage in his uniform pocket for his cigarette case. “What will you do after the war, angel?”

“I don’t know. We may not even survive the war.”

“This is true,” Hans said, offering her a smoke. She pushed it away. “But suppose we do survive. Germany is losing the war, Sylvia, and the Allies will ensure I face a Jewish tribunal. Will you stand by me as my crimes are recounted? Will you testify on behalf of a man who slaughtered your kinsmen?” 

Noting her stunned silence, Hans lit his cigarette and took a long drag. “Suppose I escape the tribunals. Will you bring me home to meet your Jewish family? Will you lie to them about my wartime activities? Can you live out your years alongside a murderer? If we are to love each other, you must ask yourself these questions.”

She took a ragged breath. "What if we had met some other place, another time--”

“There is only this place and this time, Sylvia. No fairy tales.”

Sylvia curled up against the tree trunk. “You can change, Hans. Don’t let yourself off easy. Help us get Aldo’s man out of prison. There’s so much you can do, but you have to be willing to try.”

“Nothing I do can erase what I’ve done, Sylvia.” He gazed at her sadly. “It's true, I do love you with my entire heart and soul, but my soul is a putrid, dead thing, and my heart is that of a predator. Lay down with me and I cannot help but tear your throat out.” 

“You won’t get rid of me that easily,” she said, but his words had hit their mark. Of course she had known his reputation, everyone in France knew the fearsome Jew Hunter. But emotions had a way of diluting judgement.

He was right. She had pushed aside who he was, what he had already done. He was not a good man, and maybe he never would be. But if he cared enough to have this conversation, there was hope. She would cling to that. 

What was the alternative? Living without him? 

Her knees wobbled as she stood. The sun-dappled forest had lost its magic. The Basterds, the violent guerilla unit formed on the notion that Nazis were beyond redemption, awaited at their camp. The war awaited.

“Let’s go,” she said, hoisting Hans to his feet, and together they made their way back to the ravine.

\-------------------------------------------

“Well, agent? Anything to report?” Aldo squinted as Hans quietly ducked into his own tent, still holding Sylvia’s cardigan to his forehead.

“Not really. Sorry, we were catching up. Didn’t talk about the ambush.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I swear it wasn’t a trap. He didn’t know anything until I told him just now. And he really wants to help save your man. Do you know where he’s being held?”

“I’m hearin’ 84 Avenue ‘Fotch’.”

“_Foch _,” Sylvia corrected. “That’s where Hans’ office is. Hell, that’s where they held me. Hans interrogated me there. I don’t see why he couldn’t interrogate this one.”

“It’s been a whole day, they already got to ‘im.” Aldo’s face contorted with barely contained agony. “That’s one of my men in there, and I don’t lose my men. But an 8-man unit bustin’ into SS headquarters is a suicide mission. Only reason we’re still standin’ here.”

“We’ll save him, Lieutenant,” Sylvia soothed, mentally rifling through the possibilities. “I know it’s impossible, but you have to trust Hans. He can get him out, or at least get your guys in. But the two of us need to go back to Paris, tomorrow. Hans has to be back at work like normal.” 

Aldo seemed to grapple with something. He ran a hand pensively through his mop of hair. 

“One more chance, you hear me? I’ll give that Nah-zi son of a bitch _ one more chance _ to prove himself. If he can’t get Utivich out, there'll be a target on his back, and my Basterds will not miss. We done killed a lotta his ilk already, we will not hesitate to add him to the pile. Is that clear?” he barked.

“Yes,” she swallowed, heart pounding. “We won’t let you down.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you so much to everyone reading, commenting, hunting me down on other platforms to message me, and generally loving this story. I have been totally blown away by the response. Someone even wrote their own Hans/Sylvia fic, which, for the record, I LOVE and heartily encourage! All are welcome to play in this sandbox! (Just be sure to link to this story if you decide to post it!)
> 
> I have a couple of hard deadlines coming up, and that writing has to take precedence, unfortunately. I WILL finish this story, but it may be a longer wait between chapters. Thank you all for your patience!


	21. Hospitality

Later that evening, Hans eased himself to his feet, and stepped out of his tent for air.

He found Wicki, his fellow Austrian, on guard duty. They coolly regarded one another.

“_Guten Abend,” _Hans said. Wicki nodded in return.

The soldiers had just finished supper, and men scattered all over the ravine to showers, tents, carrying cups and spoons to the cook’s station. In a little while, a cup would be thrust into his hands, full of something lukewarm, beans-adjacent, and boiled to oblivion. He no longer cared whether it had been spat in.

On the far edge of the camp, he spied Bunny, by the red hair piled on top of her head. And next to Bunny, _her._

He narrowed the lens of his senses around her with practiced efficiency, until the after-supper noise faded. She was listening closely to whatever Bunny was saying, affecting a casual posture, but shifting from foot to foot. He read her tension as easily as a street sign.

There rose in him an almost instinctual urge to go to her, to hold her fast-beating heart close to his, to absorb her fear and hurt, their bodies melting seamlessly into each other, like before.

Before. When he had recklessly seduced the best person he had ever known into betraying her ideals.

That nausea, that constant thrum from deep in his subconscious, rang out louder than ever, rattling his already aching head. Guilt. Self-loathing. That discordant sickness of living with himself.

It had been terrible that morning, hurting her so, but one must be willing to open and drain an infected wound. Especially when the stakes were this high. It was the only healthy way forward. Of course, owning up to his crimes was the mature thing to do, but that meant fuck all when he thought of his angel sobbing in the dirt, and somewhat wished he were dead.

There, she was turning. He watched her head to the aqueducts, then a voice broke his focus. A soldier was approaching his tent, empty-handed. Hans scowled.

“Lieutenant Raine wants ya,” the soldier snapped, as if trying hard to be unpleasant.

With another curt nod, Wicki planted the nose of his gun between Hans’ shoulder blades and marched him across the camp to Aldo’s office.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Thanks, Wicki. Set him down right there.”

Sylvia met Hans’ glance for a second before quickly looking away. Hans eased into the folding chair next to her.

“Landa, Leventhal,” Aldo drawled. “Ain’t you two a pretty pair.”

The battered Nazi officer, and the desperately exhausted American agent, stared.

“If you ain’t caught up on the day’s news, I got a man in SS custody at 84 Avenue Fotch.”

“_Foch,” _Sylvia muttered.

“Now, I handpicked my team from the finest Jewish talent the US military could find, and I don’t intend to lose a single one. His name is Private Smithson Utivich.”

“Pardon, his name is _Smithson?” _Hans blurted out.

“Quiet. Now, we done our share of jail breaks, but SS headquarters is a whole other barrel of fish. That’s where you two come in. And according to your girlfriend here, you’re real eager to help, ain’t ya, Landa?”

Hans turned to Sylvia, surprised. She looked away.

“Yes, I will do my best to remove him,” he finally said.

Aldo narrowed his eyes. “That ain’t good enough. I need my man back alive, and I can’t let you outta this camp without a ‘yes.’”

Hans sighed. “You do realize how difficult you have made it for me to return to work, Aldo? I am not typically beaten about the head in my line of duty.”

“Simple. If anybody asks ya, lie.”

Hans and Sylvia’s eyes now met on purpose.

“You two will be driven to Soissons tomorrow morning, where Sergeant Donowitz will escort you two on the train back to Paris.”

“I beg your pardon,” Hans interjected. “What about my car?”

“Afraid you’ll be leaving that with us for awhile. Don’t worry, I gotcha a nice private train compartment.” Aldo picked something out of his teeth before continuing. “As for Donny, you will welcome him into your home with all due hospitality, and he will keep us updated for the duration of the mission. We will rendezvous in Paris if and when needed.”

All color had drained from Hans’ face. “That seems rather an—“

“That sounds fair,” Sylvia cut in.

“I thought so myself. Donny’s just itchin’ to see Paris. City o’ Lights, and all that.”

“He will certainly see the inside of my townhouse,” Hans said, just above a grumble.

“Oh, and in case you were wonderin’, I gave Sgt. Donowitz pretty clear instructions on how to handle ya if this mission goes south. He would be real happy to take care of the both o’ y’all, should the need arise. We’re a hell of a lot better at killin’ Nah-zis than workin’ with ‘em.”

Sylvia bit her tongue. She was hardly a Nazi, but if she threw her lot in with Hans, she couldn’t blame Aldo for splitting the difference.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

The seats were plush, there was an entire breakfast spread with coffee (that actually tasted like coffee) with milk and sugar, and the compartment’s glass door slid shut with a satisfying click. And all Sylvia could think was, _what a waste._ The most luxurious train trip of her life, and she had to spend it with that burly Boston wackadoodle staring at her.

Hans returned with reading material, and sat where the worst of his bruising faced the inside of the compartment. “Magazine?” he asked too cheerfully, and Sylvia took it without looking at it, eager to put something between Donowitz’s unsettling eyes and her own.

He was practically bursting out of a Waffen-SS field uniform, snatched from some unfortunate soldier before The Bear Jew made a mess of him. He looked passable, but God help them all if anyone tried to speak German to him between now and Hans’ house.

The train picked up speed, and the graceful medieval architecture of Soissons rolled past. Sylvia opened the magazine and stared, her mind as blank as radio static.

After a few minutes, Hans peeked over. “Ah, Bridget Von Hammersmark. I remember her very well.”

“Oh.” She hadn’t realized what she was looking at: a glossy photo of Von Hammersmark, under the headline, _Das Gesicht eines Verräterin _(The Face of a Traitoress.) “Yeah, she defected to the States, didn’t she.”

“Alas, one of the brightest jewels of the German cinematic crown. What a beauty she was. I used to—“

“Please don’t.”

“I was simply monitoring her activities for a few months. Nothing unseemly.” But Hans beamed, delighted that his Sylvia was jealous.

“Well, she’s Hollywood’s jewel now. Says here she signed a deal with MGM.”

“GOOD FOR HER,” Donny barked so suddenly they both jumped.

Tense silence returned to the compartment. Sylvia found herself reading the same paragraph over and over before realizing it was a condemnation of swing as “degenerate jungle music.” She finally looked at the cover.

She was reading the May issue of Signal.

She snuck a sidelong glance at Hans, who was buried in a German newspaper, and chewing his bottom lip. So he was anxious, too.

The morning sun through the window illuminated his striking profile, that defiant chin, that nose, those eyelashes. The creases on his forehead as he focused on his reading. Even with the swelling and bruising, he was marvelous to look at. Her heart trilled with joy that after two weeks apart, she would now see that face every day.

Then, she remembered: for many of her own people, that face had been the last thing they ever saw.

Unsettled, she turned back to Signal. Donny’s dark eyes followed her, glaring.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hans only occasionally used a driver, typically for work occasions and official functions. He much preferred to drive himself. But with his car held hostage by the Basterds, he was forced to hail a cab at Gare Nord. The three of them piled into the backseat, Sylvia in the middle, and rode in silence.

At last, they arrived. When Sylvia stepped into that familiar foyer, there it all was: the grandfather clock, the crystal chandelier, the velvet settee, the stairs…it was as if both years and mere minutes had passed.

Hans came in behind her, and hung his SS Totenkopf cap on its usual peg.

Donny stood in the middle of the living room, gaping. “Real luxurious joint you got here.”

“Thank you, it’s a pity I’m not home more often to enjoy it.” Hans squeezed Sylvia’s shoulder as he passed her, heading up the stairs. “There’s a guest room on this floor. Sylvia, would you show this delightful young man to his room? I need to make a telephone call.” He offered his most angelic smile.

It was Marta’s old room, small, its window facing the alley. But it had a full sized bed, a dresser, and a desk. It was a definite step up from a tent.

Donny tore the SS uniform off as violently as if it burned him, and threw it on the floor. A bit dramatic, but she could hardly blame him.

“So…there’s no bathroom on this floor but there’s a WC a flight up, off the kitchen. If you need a bath, that’s on the third floor. That’s also where Hans and I sleep, and his study.”

Donny ignored her, as he popped open his suitcase and began putting his belongings in the drawers.

“Hans likes to eat dinner around 7, when he’s actually home that early. He tends to work late. We eat breakfast together, although…I guess you don’t have to.”

Sylvia sensed she had better leave him alone.

“Okay, well, if you need anything else, I’m on the third floor.” She turned to leave.

“I don’t fuckin’ trust you,” Donny said.

She froze. “I’m sorry?”

Donny snapped the suitcase shut. “I know you’re American, I know you’re SOE, and they keep sayin’ you’re fuckin’ Jewish? But here you are, shackin’ up with a Nazi.”

“I am Jewish. I know, it doesn’t make sense to me either, but…here we are.”

Donny towered over her. “Our people are dyin’ out there. The Nazis are killin’ us. It ain’t that complicated.”

“I…I know. But…it _is _complicated, in this instance.” She swallowed. “Hans saved my life, over and over. He’s been sabotaging the Gestapo for months. He’s helping us, right now.”

“That’s dandy. I sure as hell don’t trust him.”

“He’ll save Utivich. He’s really important in the SS, I mean, he got me out.” It suddenly occurred to Sylvia that Hans certainly couldn’t remove Utivich under the same pretense under which he’d saved her.

“He’d fucking better.” That glint came back into Donny’s eyes, the look that made her squirm.

“We’ll be upstairs,” she concluded, and went up as calmly as she could.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sylvia pushed the door open to Hans’ study and crept across the threshold.

“That had better be a beautiful blonde sneaking up on me,” Hans droned.

She couldn’t help but giggle. Did he have to be so goddamn charming all the time? “What’s the latest?”

“Utivich is there,” he replied, looking up. “I requested no one lay a finger on him until I have a chance to interrogate. But Frick got to him on the first night. He may be in very rough shape.”

Sylvia, who could never stomach any thought of torture, grimaced.

Hans took her hand. “He’s alive, and he’s conscious. This is the best case scenario. I’ll see him today, and I assure you, will we get him out.”

His hand grasping hers, after so much time apart, made her schoolgirl giddy. She vividly imagined hiking her skirt, climbing into his lap, undoing his trousers, losing herself in his taste and touch…god, it would be so easy, so comforting, and she was so very much in need of it.

But…she squeezed his hand in return. Later. Best to keep a cool head for now.

“I’d very much like to kiss you," Hans said, cocking his head impishly. "May I?"

As if she could resist.

“Since you asked so nicely…” She leaned into his waiting lips. The sensation was electric, as her senses filled with him, and as their tongues met, she became powerfully aroused. She pulled back quickly.

“Ah, yes. I believe you’re right, angel.” Hans shifted in his chair. “We shall ‘take it slow,’ as they say.”

“Are we…” She gathered her courage. “Are we a couple, Hans? Can we commit to this?”

Hans gazed imploringly. “Are you certain that you want to be with me? Knowing what you know?”

Sylvia took a deep breath. “It’s you or no one, Hans.”

“Then I will work every day of my life, for as much time as I’m allotted on this earth, to deserve you,” Hans said solemnly, eyes shining.

This tender moment was interrupted by sudden footsteps up the stairs to the top floor. Both glanced at the ceiling.

“That’ll be our friend from Boston, bugging the whole house to spy on us.”

“Better him than the Abwehr. Hey, if he wants to snoop, why don’t you leave out a few choice folders?”

“Too subtle,” Hans chuckled. “I’ll tape it to his bedroom door, with the relevant information circled in red.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hans made his triumphant return to 84 Avenue Foch just after noon, and even with most of the staff on lunch, his appearance caused quite a stir. He had an official story prepped, and a rather good one, too, he thought: while tracking down a Resistance ringleader, he was cornered, and although outnumbered and short on bullets, fought six men barehanded. They were vicious fighters, but naturally, he had prevailed. Unfortunately, no one from the third floor typing pool had the gumption to ask.

The sixth floor prison complex, hidden behind a secret passageway and a series of locked doors, was only accessible to a few; Hans was one of the privileged keyholders. When the final door gave way, he was greeted by screams, the hideous howl of a body in excruciating pain. Just another day at the office for the interrogators, guards, and prison staff of Sicherheitsdienst.

“Heil Hitler,” grunted the large, red-cheeked man, as he stood to salute his superior. “Cell 12, Standartenführer.”

_“Danke.” _Hans made his way down the dimly lit corridor, past other unfortunate prisoners of the regime, stopping at Cell 12. A small young man in American dungarees looked up. 

“Utivich?” he asked quietly. The soldier nodded. Hans unlocked the cell, and noticing a pronounced limp, helped Utivich into the nearest empty interrogation room. 

“So Lt. Raine let you out of his sight. Congratulations.” Utivich was looking over the table of torture implements. Pliers, truncheons, pokers, devices he didn't know the names of.

“What makes you so sure I didn’t escape?” Hans hastily locked the door behind them.

“Because you didn’t.” Utivich lowered himself uneasily into the bloodstained wooden chair. Leather restraints dangled from its arms. “Guess I’ll sit here.”

Hans leaned against the table of implements. “Please don’t be alarmed by your surroundings. I have no intention of hurting you. Rather the contrary.”

“Oh how embarrassing. We’re wearing the same accessory,” Utivich deadpanned.

Hans raised his eyebrows.

The young man gestured to his own bruise, a black and green sprawl across his cheek and eye. “One of us is gonna have to go home and change.”

“How funny you are, Utivich,” Hans said. To his annoyance, he rather liked this man. “And a most unusual name you have.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that a lot.”

“Smithson!”

“Yeah.”

“What is the origin of this name? I’m very curious.”

“Well, sir,” Utivich said. “I’m from New England. Do you know what ‘WASP’ means? White American suburban protestants. You may not know this but most Americans don’t like Jews too much, either. My parents thought a name like ‘Smithson’ would tone it down a little.”

“Fascinating.” Hans had genuinely not known that about Americans.

“Now tell me about yours.”

“Hans?”

“No, ‘The Jew Hunter.’”

“Oh, that.” Hans tried to wave it away, as if it were a fly. “Meaningless at this juncture. Just a name that stuck.” 

“You’ve got to admit, it’s catchy.”

“It’s a nickname. Do you control the nicknames your enemies bestow on you?” Hans thought for a moment. “It’s The Little Man, isn’t it?”

Utivich blinked. “The Germans’ nickname for me is ‘The Little Man’?”

“Only as accessory to the equally ridiculous ‘Aldo the Apache.’ Well, you are small, but hardly ‘circus midget’ little, as your moniker would suggest.”

“Let’s change the subject,” Utivich said.

“Certainly.” Hans produced a small pad and pen from his uniform pocket. “Let’s discuss the night of the Resistance meeting, in your own words.”

"Oh, I was sorta hoping you could tell me about that.”

Hans lowered his pad. “I had no knowledge of the meeting, only that Edward Scott is a German informant. I deeply regret your capture, you must believe me.”

“I suppose I must.” Utivich’s sleepy expression turned ice cold.

Hans bent to speak to the seated man face to face. “As you may have already surmised, Aldo has recruited me to save you. I do not yet know how this will be accomplished, but rest assured, you will be released from this prison and returned to your ‘Basterds.’ What’s more, I will ensure no further harm comes to you while you are in SS custody.”

He waited, for a smile, or a thank you. He came up empty.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hans’ colleagues knew his interrogation methods leaned toward the psychological, rather than the physical. What a relief to not have to fake screams, or bloodied toenails in the wastebin.

He returned Utivich to his cell, and ventured a little farther down the corridor, to where it bent in a stunted L. There were just a few more cells here, another interrogation room, and a storage closet. No exit from this end. When the Nazis had hastily remodeled the stately mansions of Avenue Foch, they had not taken fire safety into account.

So, the only way to bring a prisoner out was through the main entrance, past the front desk, and into the locked corridor._ Scheiß._

Hans was pondering this when a door suddenly burst open, flooding the dim hallway with light. 

Two goons with blood-drenched aprons brought forth a man, or what remained of a man - a gaunt and broken figure, twitching, reeking of urine, arms dislocated and dangling at horrific angles.

“Ah, Landa!” The interrogator, a Sturmbannführer, peeled off his bloodied glove before saluting. “How good to see you. That’s quite a shiner you’ve got there.”

“Yes, had a run in with criminals,” Hans fibbed, distracted by the horror on display.

The goons roughly dragged their victim down the corridor, and Hans found it impossible to look away.

“I’m sure you held your own! How are things at home? How is your lovely fiancee?” the Sturmbannführer asked.

Hans could taste his own sick. “She’s well. I must be going. Appointments.” And walked away.

The Sturmbannführer was saying something but he heard none of it. 

Mechanically, he unlocked each of the doors, entered the elevator, exited to the third floor, and returned to the polished mahogany desk. It was piled with case files, paperwork, that had accumulated in his absence.

Reports of hidden Jews, Jews living in public under assumed identities, homosexuals, traitors, spies. All awaiting his approval.

It would be incredibly suspicious if he rejected all of them, and he was already attracting too much attention. If he triggered an investigation, he risked arrest and interrogation from his own side. As soon as anyone started looking, they would find more than enough to justify a firing squad.

Without his active sabotage, and the protection of his rank, Sylvia would be exposed, along with all of her fellow agents in Majorette, and the Basterds as well.

He would have to approve some of these raids. At least some of these Jews, resistors, ‘enemies of the state,’ would have to be sacrificed to save those already under his wing. 

Hans sat motionless at the desk for a long time, his pen and ink well untouched. The lights buzzed overhead.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was late when Sylvia stirred from a deep sleep. She switched on the bedside lamp to find Hans standing in her doorway. 

She squinted. “Hans? You've been out all this time? What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry.” He approached her bedside. “I...I’m not fit to perform my duties in the SS.”

“That’s...good?” Sylvia noticed his hands were shaking, badly. What had happened? She thought better of asking.

“Come on, get in.” She scooted over. Without a word, Hans climbed into the bed, fully clothed, and curled his body around hers, pressing his face into her hair to breathe her in, to feel her warmth, the fact of her existence.

Sylvia took one of his trembling hands, kissed the palm, and tucked it beneath her chin, the wool of his uniform sleeve rough against her neck. 

And so they lay together until morning light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note re: Bridget Von Hammersmark - I hope no one is terribly disappointed by how I've chosen to handle her. The fact is, with Hans actively helping the Basterds, there isn't much for her to do, and frankly, this is a much happier ending for her. (In my mind, she appeared in a bunch of corny patriotic wartime musicals, like Hollywood Canteen, and lived to a ripe old age in a cliffside Malibu mansion full of abstract art and fabulous shoes. But I digress.)
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading! And for commenting, and giving kudos. I am so grateful this story has found an appreciative audience. More soon!


	22. Waltz Time

That night, Sylvia dreamt of the sea.

Not a stormy sea, or a tropical beach, either. Just water, cold and grey, stretching to the edge of sight beneath a blank white sky.

She woke from it bizarrely calm, even when she registered the fully-dressed Hans curled alongside her, still fast asleep. She unbuttoned his tunic, and pulled off his jackboots, placing each on the floor.

The insignia of his uniform no longer frightened her but the sight of a uniformed SS officer in one’s own bed was still a bracing tonic first thing in the morning.

Shrugging on a day dress, she opened the bedroom window. It was a sunny morning, and promised to be a warm and lovely day. At least here, in the townhouse, with Hans, the world made sense.

As Sylvia washed her face in the bathroom, a sudden noise made her jump. Quickly toweling off, she tiptoed onto the landing. Someone was definitely in the house.

Blood rushing, she took one step, then two, before peeking into the kitchen. A brawny figure in a white t-shirt was loudly rummaging through the cabinets.

Right. Sergeant Donowitz. So much for the world making sense.

“Morning,” she mumbled, averting her eyes. Did he have to be so…muscular??

“I could eat a fucking horse,” he growled into the empty icebox.

Sylvia searched the pantry, and after a moment, emerged with a loaf of bread. “Feels stale but it might be edible.” As soon as the words left her mouth she noticed the entire back end was blue-green mold.

“You tryna kill me? Throw that shit away!” Donny yelled. Sylvia slammed it into the garbage and clapped the lid over it.

“Guess I’ll have to go to the market,” she sighed, and washed her hands in the sink, awkwardly shrinking from Donny’s gaze.

“I called base camp last night. Told ‘em no Utivich yet. Aldo ain’t happy.”

“It’s only been a day!”

“Our man’s been a prisoner since Sunday night," Donny said, leaning on the counter. "What are we supposed to do, sit back and relax?”

“No, I guess not,” Sylvia said. “But I’m sure Hans has a plan.”

Donny nodded slowly. “Yeah. Sure. A plan.”

“He won’t let anything happen to him. Okay? I'll talk to him today. We'll figure something out.”

The kitchen suddenly felt very small and very, very warm.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Later that afternoon, the patrons of the upscale Cafe Morocco shamelessly craned their necks for a better look at Standartenführer Landa and his fiancée, canoodling in a booth in the corner. They were the very picture of lovebirds, heads pressed together, giggling and exchanging sweet nothings. Even with that bruise, he was awfully handsome. And “Ilse”, in a chic new suit and hat, glowed with happiness.

Hans’ arm was around her waist…until it wasn’t.

“Be a good boy, Hans,” she softly scolded. “Everyone’s looking at us.”

“Let them look.” He stroked her hip fondly. “As long as they can’t read lips.”

“I’m not worried about this crowd, but still.” Sylvia sipped her wine. “Back to work. Remind me which floor is the top.”

“Sixth. But the prison begins on the fifth floor.”

“Okay. They took me up the elevator but there must be stairs.”

“There are. But not in the complex itself, unfortunately. They’re near the elevator, on the wrong side of a great many locked doors,” Hans clarified, planting a kiss on her nose.

“So we’d still have to bring him past the front desk? Shit.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Do any of the interrogation rooms connect?”

“They do not.”

Sylvia picked up her fork and drew two parallel lines in her risotto to represent the corridor, then scratched two lines for the elevator and stairs. “Like this?”

“The door to the stairs is to the left of the elevator, on the adjacent wall,” Hans murmured into her cheek.

She watched the risotto ooze back over her lines. “There’s a window in the reception area, right? I think that’s the one unblocked window.”

“Correct,” Hans said. “But I don’t believe we can safely get down from there.”

“Still important.” Sylvia dropped a single haricot vert to mark the window. “It used to be a mansion, there’s got to be a dumbwaiter somewhere. We could send up explosives.”

Hans pressed his lips to her shining blonde hair. “My brilliant girl. I’m sure it’s been painted over. But perhaps—“

Hans trailed off, in a manner that made Sylvia set down her fork. A slick-haired Gestapo officer, the exact complexion of the inside of an apple, stood at their table. He saluted Hans, then smirked. Sylvia hated him immediately.

“Standartenführer Landa! Finally back in town! What a pleasure!” he crooned.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Hans replied, with a cherry on top.

“Oh, and this must be the famous Ilse. She certainly looks well.” He clearly expected her hand, and with every ounce of self-discipline, Sylvia offered it. 

“Ilse, my love, this is Hauptsturmführer Erich Weissman,” Hans explained, as Weissman's wet lips touched her knuckles. “Assistant adjutant to Minister Goebbels.”

“What a lucky man you are, Standartenführer. So happy to see you’re back in town. And Goebbels will be most pleased.” He waited for the reaction.

“Oh, yes, the salon!” Hans smacked the unbruised side of his forehead. “Forgive me, I’ve been so embroiled in my investigations that I completely forgot to RSVP. Please send Goebbels my deepest regrets.”

Weissman frowned. “Oh, he won’t like that. No, he won’t like that at all. You see, he’s quite keen on you attending. Both of you.”

Sylvia’s eyes widened. “Oh?”

“The focus of the salon is German dance traditions. Goebbels hoped the two of you would represent Austria by demonstrating the Viennese waltz.”

Hans covered a snicker with a hard throat-clearing. “Oh, I so hate to disappoint him but I’m afraid it simply can’t be helped.”

Weissman cocked his greasy head. “Might I remind you attendance is mandatory for _all _Schutzstaffel men?”

“Alas, my services are most necessary to the safety of the Reich in Paris,” Hans retorted, throwing up his hands. “I couldn't possibly leave our forces vulnerable to attack. Tell Joseph I owe him a favor, perhaps –“

“Oh, I’d like to go to a dance salon!” Sylvia suddenly piped up. “It sounds lovely, Hans!”

Hans shot her a pointed glance. “My dear, you forget about—“

“What day is it?” she asked Weissman in her sweetest voice.

“Saturday. 7pm, with the performances beginning at 8. It’s at 58 Foch.”

“I will be quite busy Saturday,” Hans warned.

“Nonsense. You can squeeze it in.” She turned back to Weissman. “He’ll squeeze it in.”

Weissman clapped his hands childishly. “Oh, Goebbels will be so pleased. I’ll tell him right away! Good day, Standartenführer!” With one final salute, he was out the door.

Sylvia watched the façade evaporate from Hans’ face. “My love, what on earth have you done.”

She took a bite of risotto. “You’re gonna make me spell it out?”

“Angel, you’ve seen Goebbels. In the flesh. If you receive an invitation to that man’s party, there are two options: garbage, or fireplace.”

“Hans.” She placed a hand on his thigh. “It’s mandatory for all SS. And two blocks from 84.”

“Yes, and Gestapo above a certain rank.”

“Brilliant. That’s at least three hours that 84 Foch will be understaffed.”

Their eyes locked, and giddy joy spread across both faces, like sunlight sparkling on water.

“I could take you right here in this café,” Hans snarled, inches from her mouth.

“Cool off, Liebling,” Sylvia whispered. She had never called him that before. They both wordlessly agreed they rather liked it.

“However, there is one crucial detail you have overlooked.” Hans took a swig of his wine.

“What the hell did I miss?” she sputtered.

“Today is Wednesday. The salon is this Saturday.” He gave her knee a loving squeeze. “You have three days to learn how to waltz like an Austrian.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hans hired a car to take him to his office. After depositing Sylvia at the townhouse, the black Citroen head to Avenue Foch, and turned onto the private inner road that only Reich vehicles could use. Upon arrival at 84, two armed guards quickly opened the gate, allowing the car to enter the little tunnel which emptied just behind the mansion. A fountain, goofily baroque, spat water to the heavens in the middle of the roundabout, a relic of the French society that so recently held court here. Hans dismissed the driver, and entered 84 Foch through its rear, main entrance.

He was greeted by the concierge at the front desk, just opposite the imposing spiral staircase which dominated the entrance hall. Hans bypassed it in favor of the waiting elevator, where he asked the bellhop for the third floor.

However, when he arrived on the third floor, he did not go to his office. Instead, after non-chalantly scoping for witnesses, he opened the unmarked door to the stairwell.

From here he made his way up three flights to the topmost floor, the sixth. He listened for a moment before trying it. Locked.

Hans consulted his key ring, trying each of his sixth floor keys in turn. None of them worked. So he had keys for every single door to the prison but this, the most crucial one.

Gritting his teeth, he returned to the third floor, and took the elevator back up to the sixth. One by one, the doors to the prison gave way. Finally, quelling the sickness in his gut, he opened the final door.

“_Heil Hitler,” _saluted Oberst Knuss, the prison overseer. He wasn’t often on front desk duty.

“Heil Hitler,” Hans returned, a little baffled by Knuss’s presence but undeterred. He strode casually down the dim hallway, other prisoners coming to their bars to eavesdrop, finally stopping at cell 12. Utivich glanced up hopefully.

“I hope you’re ready to speak, Jew rat. Your time is running out,” Hans hissed, then deftly tossed a napkin-wrapped dinner roll through the bars.

Whistling a jaunty tune, he left the prison complex, returned to the third floor by elevator, and re-entered the back stairwell once more, this time descending all the way to the bottom. A bare light bulb allowed Hans to inspect the doorframe for any kind of alarm. He found nothing.

Taking a sharp breath, he opened the door.

It opened onto a serene, yet neglected, back garden, complete with wooden benches, a flagstone path, and an algae-choked birdbath. As Hans stepped into this apparently forgotten paradise, he heard the damning click of an automatic lock behind him. Oh well.

Birds sang in the trees, as if celebrating his discovery. There was no one in sight.

Following the stone path, Hans found himself at a wrought iron fence with no gate. The path abruptly ended, but through the overgrown weeds he could see another, gravel path turning away out of sight.

He quickly scanned his peripheral vision for witnesses, then dragging one of the decorative stones to the fence, he attempted to climb it. On the third try, he got enough momentum to hoist himself over. He landed on the other side with a gentle thud.

Hans giggled like a man possessed. This was far too easy.

Dusting himself off, he followed the little path, which ran behind Avenue Foch’s mansions like an alley, but appeared to be completely unused by the Reich. Boots crunching on gravel, he reached the end, where it emptied onto the little side street between Foch and the busy Boulevard du Marechaux. From the corner, he could see the rooftop of 58 Foch on the adjoining block.

Quite satisfied, Hans walked the rest of the way to the main thoroughfare, and hailed a cab home. He had a long night ahead of him.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“No, angel, you’re stepping too wide on the 1. Emphasize the _2, _when you take your lateral step into the turn.” Hans demonstrated for the umpteenth time. “Watch my feet.”

“I’m watching.” Sylvia wiped the sweat from her face with the back of her hand. “I know what I’m supposed to do, but my feet don’t. Some Austrian I am.”

“I wasn’t born knowing the waltz,” Hans soothed, as _Blue Danube _ended once again. He went to change the record. “I took lessons as a young man. Years of them, in fact. Which isn’t to say Austrian blood doesn’t help. But some training is necessary to truly excel.”

“Maybe there’s someone else you can dance with on Saturday.”

“Who did you have in mind?” Hans asked, dropping the needle.

“How about yourself? Solo waltz. Very modern.”

He sighed. “Let’s get back to work.”

The new song opened with bombastic horns.

“Sounds threatening,” Sylvia whimpered.

“Lehar. The_ Merry Widow _waltz. Come.” They fell back into position, his right hand at the back of her waist. “And 1 2 3, 1 2 3, 1 2 3.”

They were hardly ready for a Reich function, but at least now, after three hours, she wasn’t stepping on his boots. It was progress.

The sound of a beer bottle opening jerked her out of focus. She glared over Hans’ shoulder at Donny, kicking back on the velvet settee. “Do you mind?”

“I’m supposed to keep an eye on you two. Just followin’ orders.” Donny grinned.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next day, Donny emerged from his room to find Sylvia laying on the settee, feet elevated.

“Aldo gave it a thumbs up,” he announced. “What are we calling the mission, Operation Waltz?”

Sylvia merely groaned in response.

“C’mon, get up.” Donny offered a hand. He was freshly showered, and those intense eyes of his were less frightening. “Maybe I can help ya practice.”

Sylvia took his hand, and he easily pulled her upright. “You know how to waltz?”

“After watching you two all night? I could waltz in my sleep.”

“Hilarious.”

“Couldn’t hurt.”

Her heart jolted as they assumed the position. This was purely innocent, but somehow it seemed wrong to stand this close, to feel that brawny hand at her back, to breathe in that musky-clean smell.

“1 2 3, 1 2 3,” he counted, and they began to turn.

“Hey, you’re actually not that bad,” she remarked, as he clumsily pulled her across the living room.

“I’m a quick study.” One two three, one two three. She remembered to close her feet, and leaned into the lateral step, as Hans had taught her.

“Look at you! You’re gonna blow all those Nazis away. Meanwhile, down the street, we’ll be blowin’ all the _other _Nazis away.” Donny smiled.

She quickly broke out of his hold. “I gotta sit down. I’m still sore.”

Donny rubbed the back of his neck for a moment. “Hey, uh…I’m not tryna be rude, but what do ya see in that old Nazi of yours?”

Sylvia felt dizzy. “What?”

“You’re a smart girl, real smart. And not bad lookin’, either.”

“Wow, thanks.”

“I mean it.” Donny took a few steps toward the settee but remained standing. “You’re a hell of a girl. It’s a shame you went for a Nazi, that’s all. Even if he’s helpin’ our side. I just think it’s a shame.”

She felt herself pinken. “Luckily, that has nothing to do with you.”

“I mean no disrespect, none at all. It’s just too bad a knockout Jewish girl like you gotta end up with a kraut.”

Was this really happening? No one like Donny had ever looked at her in her life. “I’m not a knockout. No one thinks that.”

“See, you gotta value yourself, Sylvia. Know your worth. I respect you, now that I see what you did. You fuckin’ turned a Nazi into a saboteur, a big time Nazi. You did a good job. But you ain’t gotta stay with him if you don’t want to.”

“I…I do want to.”

Donny snorted incredulously. “You’d really pick that old Gerry over a nice Jewish boy?”

“Did you have a specific Jewish boy in mind?” she asked.

“I don’t wanna be too forward or nothin’…”

She was really red now. “Oh wow. Donny, I…”

“Forget it. Forget I said anything.” He started to retreat to his room.

“No, don’t. I’m not. I mean. I’m just surprised. I assumed you were after Bunny.”

“Aw, Bunny’s great, don't get me wrong. But you, you’re somethin’ else. There ain’t no other girls like you.” He thought for a moment. “I just think you’re a real nice girl, with a lot to offer, and any fella you pick oughta know how lucky he is.”

With that, Donny went down the stairs, and she heard his bedroom door shut.

An unpleasant stew of emotions simmered as she flopped back onto the settee.

A complete, alternate life ran through her head like a newsreel: returning to Boston with her absurdly handsome ex-Basterd, the unequivocal hero, the Nazi-killer. Easily folding into his big Jewish family, his sweet old Bubbe, dancing at his siblings’ and cousins’ Bar/Bat Mitzvahs. _Hava Nagila_ at their wedding, being joyfully hoisted on chairs by all of their friends and family. Dark-eyed children. Her big strapping husband, the Bear Jew himself, in bed beside her every night, his conscience clear.

Then the daydream fizzled. Her heart was spoken for, her path chosen, her fate clear. But she had thought all that before, with another man. And look how that turned out.

She stared at the ceiling and listened to the old Bavarian grandfather clock _tick, tick, tick_. 

Nothing was going to happen between her and the Basterd. Not now.

But a guy like Donny Donowitz, attracted to her? Was an ego boost to cherish forever.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Another night of waltz lessons, this time in her new kid leather heels. “I have to practice in the shoes I’ll be wearing,” she announced, tottering dangerously into Hans' arms.

By the end, her feet looked like raw hamburger.

Hans sat opposite her. “Put your foot in my lap,” he commanded, and after carefully removing the stiff leather pump, very gently began rubbing her foot. Sylvia sighed.

“Himmler is coming,” he said matter-of-factly, working on the ball of her foot.

“Wait, really? Why?”

“I received a telegram this afternoon,” Hans continued. “He wishes to discuss something with me, at the salon. He didn’t specify.”

“Oh god.” Sylvia blanched. It must be important to bring Himmler all the way to Paris.

“We waltz, we slip out, we make it back before the performances end, I pull Himmler aside and discuss whatever’s on his mind, then hopefully we get out of there before news reaches the salon.” He began applying long strokes up her calf. “It’s going to be bloody, Sylvia. You know we can’t leave witnesses.”

“I know.” She had been avoiding thinking about it.

“That shouldn’t fall to you. I’ll give you a pistol but hopefully you won’t need to use it.”

“What happens if we get blood on our clothes?”

“Then we go home, I change, and very discreetly tell everyone you _took ill_.”

It was an audacious plan. It was by far the riskiest thing Hans had done yet. But as they spoke, the Basterds were packing to rendezvous with Hans in the morning. The wheels were already in motion. No turning back now.

Hans helped her up the stairs, and paused on the landing. “Your bedroom, Fraulein?”

“Actually,” she glanced up at him meaningfully. “I’d like to go to yours.”

His eyes darkened deliciously. “Yes, my bed has seemed rather empty without you.”

With great tenderness, he swept her into his bedroom, laid her across the clean white bedspread, and kissed her, pouring weeks of longing into his lips and tongue until both were panting.

“For the love of all that is holy, take off that uniform,” she laughed, furiously undoing her dress.

Hans got to his underwear and sock garters before the sight of Sylvia, sprawled and waiting, became irresistible. Mounting the bed, he greedily ran his hands across the contours of her naked body.

“I really really need you to fuck me,” she gasped as his fingers dipped into her wetness.

“The woman directing the man? How modern,” he teased, parting her knees to enter her, in one long thrust, all the way to the hilt. She nearly screamed from the sensation.

“Oh, how I missed you, angel,” Hans groaned, beginning to move inside of her. A long throaty moan escaped Sylvia’s lips.

“I need it,” she panted. “Don’t stop.”

“Stop??” Pinning her hands to the pillow above her head, Hans growled, “My dear girl, you are going to be very, very sore tomorrow.”

Donny Donowitz, at his usual listening post downstairs, threw his headphones across the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent my Thanksgiving break planning this prison heist. I'm so excited for it to play out. Stay tuned!
> 
> Thank you to everyone reading and commenting! Your feedback is so encouraging. I can't believe this story has over 900 hits, who knew that many people were still reading Basterds fic?? Bless each and every one of you!! 
> 
> p.s. The title of this story comes from a Built to Spill song, as does the chapter title, "Untrustable." I just think that whole album is so very Hans, and so evocative of a midlife moral crisis. 
> 
> One of these days I'll put together a complete playlist for this story...


	23. First Step: The Downbeat

Friday morning brought Hans Landa and his fiancée to a small, run-down tailor shop in west Clichy. SAME-DAY ALTERATIONS, announced a sun-bleached sign in the window. 

An older man with measuring tape draped around his neck greeted them, asked a few questions, then ushered the couple to a closet in the back of the shop. The back wall of the closet was, in fact, a sliding door. 

It opened to reveal all of the remaining Basterds, plus Alain and Bunny, crowded around a table. All conversation ceased as they entered.

Sylvia couldn’t resist squeezing her old comrades’ hands before taking a seat next to Landa.

“Gentlemen and ladies,” Hans began, with a nod to Bunny. “I am so pleased to be working with each of you on Operation Merry Widow.”

“We’ve been callin’ it Operation Waltz,” Aldo interrupted. 

Hans blinked. “That’s rather generic, don’t you think?”

“It’s simple,” Aldo said. “Easy to remember.”

“The name is unimportant,” Donny cut in. “Let’s talk about the plan.”

“Yes, Operation _Merry Widow Waltz_,” Hans said with a serrated edge.

Sylvia and Alain’s eyes met across the table. Aldo and Hans were strange bedfellows, indeed.

Hans produced an enormous portfolio, full of diagrams, photos, even a blueprint of the 6th floor renovation. The Basterds gawked at the sheer volume of material, unused to Landa-grade thoroughness.

As Hans described the points of entry around the mansion, Aldo assigned roles: Donny would drive the van. Wicki would guard the gravel path. Aldo, Donny, and Hirschberg would lead the charge inside, once Sylvia had cleared the stairwell for entry. All hands would help move prisoners downstairs and over the back fence. Bunny, with her nursing training, would triage who needed medical attention and direct them to the SOE vehicle on the other end of the street. Someone would have to follow Hans and Sylvia in through the front, and eliminate every witness: Stiglitz, obviously.

“Alright, Hirschberg, say what’cher gonna say, just stop clearing yer damn throat,” Aldo finally said.

Hirschberg sat up nervously. “Look, I might be in the minority here, but…I’m sorry, this smells awful fishy to me.”

“What is ‘fishy’ about it?” Hans asked.

“He’s a goddamn Nazi!” Hirschberg was working up a sweat. “Leading us into the fuckin’ hornet’s nest. How do we know we ain’t gonna get ambushed as soon as we get in there?”

“Don’t you worry, Hirschberg, I put the fear of the Lord into our Nah-zi friend. He knows just what’s comin’ to ‘im if he don’t play by our rules.” Aldo smiled at Hans. “Ain’t that right, Landa?”

The beating was fresh in Hans’ mind, and the bruises still obvious. “Yes, I am quite aware.”

“If you can’t trust him, trust me,” Sylvia stepped in. “I was held in that prison, too. This is as much my plan as his.”

“Okay, maybe you can tell me how we’re supposed to get through six locked doors?”

“Hans has keys for every door in the corridor.”

Hirschberg pointed to the blueprint. “So he doesn’t have keys for the stairwell??”

“I’m afraid I do not,” Hans replied.

“Are you fucking serious??” 

Aldo rubbed his chin. “You did promise us, if I recall, ‘unfettered access’ to the prison. A locked stairwell kinda looks like a ‘fetter’ to me.”

“Gentlemen, it was my understanding the ‘Basterds’ had several prison break-ins under their collective belt,” Hans contended. “We are all adults here, surely we can dismantle one locked door.”

“We’ll shoot off the lock,” Aldo grunted, ready to move on. “Now, what’s the timeframe here?”

“We perform at 8:30,” Sylvia said. “It’s about a 6 minute walk away, so you can expect us by 8:50.”

Omar raised his hand. “I’m sorry, perform?”

“Goebbels has asked Sylvia and I to demonstrate the Viennese Waltz at his salon,” Hans supplied, immediately setting the room off.

“Listen!” Sylvia raised her voice. To her astonishment, the men fell silent. “Forget Goebbels. The point is every SS officer in Paris, including Goebbels, _and _Himmler, will testify we were at that party. We waltz, we slip out, we break into 84, we’re back before the show is even over. No one will notice we’re gone.”

_Hopefully_, she thought, as Hans continued the plan. Across the table, Bunny looked more worried than Sylvia had ever seen her.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

1 2 3, 1 2 3, 1 2 3. Sylvia tried her damnedest not to count out loud, as _The Blue Danube _swelled to a climax, the record spinning on the gramophone as Hans spun her in circles across the living room.

“Don’t bounce, lean,” he coached. “Yes, much better.”

They executed a clumsy, but seamless, direction change. Sylvia huffed.

“Almost.” Hans’ eyes caught hers. “You’re thinking too hard. Trust me. I’ll lead you.”

She was beginning to feel self-conscious as the sweat poured down her back, where Hans’ right hand was firmly planted beneath her shoulder blades. But he held her as steady as ever, and on the tide of music, she followed him.

With one final turn, the song ended, and with a flourish, they faced the settee to bow. Donny clapped and whooped.

“What do you think, Donowitz? Am I a real Austrian?” Sylvia asked.

“Realer than Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny put together,” he quipped.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------

And then it was Saturday. Hans and Sylvia spent most of the day apart, being groomed and fitted for the occasion. When Sylvia returned from the hair salon, she found her cardigan, dry-cleaned and folded at the foot of her bed.

She slid into her new gown, a shimmery teal number, and stepped into the now-broken-in pumps. Eyeshadow, lipstick, rouge, blending with her fingers, and pausing to marvel at the chic creature staring back at her. Time to go.

Down the stairs she went, holding her beaded clutch. Waiting at the bottom was Hans, freshly shaved and groomed, in his immaculate dress uniform with white gloves and dagger, gazing up at her like Galileo at the Milky Way. Her knees almost gave way. How was it possible that this man loved her?

“Ready to ‘trip the light fantastic,’ Miss Bronner?” Hans asked, offering his arm.

\------------------------------------------------------------

7:40pm: Hans and Sylvia arrived on the fourth floor at 58 Avenue Foch, an open, airy space, luxuriously appointed. Whoever the Nazis forced out of here must’ve been a big deal, Sylvia thought.

Baroque and Renaissance art covered most of the walls; sumptuous nudes, battle scenes, angels and lovers, violence and luxury, paintings of the very rich and quite dead.

As an endless rotation of Reich officers and their wives greeted Hans and his fiancée, she smiled as enigmatically as the oil portraits surrounding them. Beyond the chatter and clinking glasses, through the wide windows facing Avenue Foch, the sun was beginning to set on Occupied Paris.

\------------------------------------------------------------

8:22pm: A black Gestapo van slowly turned onto the little cobblestone street between Avenue Foch and Boulevard des Maréchaux. It came to a stop and cut the engine. No one emerged.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

8:48pm: “I’m gonna faint, I’m gonna faint, I’m gonna faint,” Sylvia chanted under her breath. She stood with Hans in the doorway of the adjoining parlor. Goebbels’ opening speech had not only started late, but gone on twenty minutes past their performance time.

“You will not faint,” Hans murmured into her hair. “You are but a simple Alpine farmgirl, naturally you’re anxious.”

“_Natürlich,” _she returned, in her Ilse accent, then slipped back into Sylvia. “How long can he talk?”

“Until he’s tired of hearing himself, I’m afraid,” Hans sighed.

“Any sign of Himmler?”

“Not yet. If we’re lucky he won’t show at all.”

She watched Goebbels’ rail on, flop sweat drenching his gaunt face.

Grabbing Hans’ right hand, she craned her neck to see his watch. “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. It’s almost 9.”

“They’ll wait.”

Unsure, she turned back to Goebbels. The orchestra musicians pretended to pay attention.

\-------------------------------------------------------------

“It’s 9,” Hirschberg sneered from the back of the parked Gestapo van. “How do you like that? I bet we been stood up.”

“Ten minutes is nothing,” Bunny grumbled. “Christ, it stinks in here. Can we get a window open?”

Alain felt in the dark for a handle, then sheepishly gave up. Of course the windows didn’t open. This van was for transporting prisoners.

“Well,” Hirschberg said. “I don’t feel good about it. Never felt good about any of this.”

Donny turned around in the drivers’ seat. “This ain’t about your feelings, alright? Pipe down, they’ll get here.”

Popping a stick of gum in his mouth, Alain stared out the window toward the gravel path, where Aldo and Omar waited, watching for a signal from the 3rd floor.

\----------------------------------------------------------------

9:03pm: A hush fell over the party as Hans and Sylvia took their positions, one arm out, one hand at the other’s spine. Their eyes locked. Their heatbeats aligned.

In her peripheral vision, Sylvia saw the conductor raise his baton.

_The Blue Danube _began. The first step, the downbeat, then leaning into the second, lateral step, and the third step, closing the feet, completing the turn. 1 2 3, 1 2 3, 1 2 3, steadily increasing speed. The gawking Germans, the swastika flags, the paintings disappeared and there was nothing but Hans and Sylvia, spinning through space.

The static hum of fear fell away, and all Sylvia thought was, _I trust you._

Faster and faster the orchestra played, the brass ringing out, the rhythm pulsing through their bodies. She was sure she made mistakes. She overstepped here, hesitated there. But his hands were steady and sure, his eyes the stars lighting her path, and she knew he would never let her fall. She knew this as she knew her own soul.

At last, the final chord. Just as they had practiced in the living room, they spun to face the cheering crowd, joined hands, and bowed low.

Minutes later, as folk dancers in lederhosen took the floor, Hans and Sylvia slipped out through a service entrance and started west along Avenue Foch.

The night was sticky and warm. Along the private access path, many of the fences were overgrown with honeysuckle in heady bloom, a remnant of the mansions’ previous owners. Hand in hand, they hurried across the street and past 72 Foch.

“Hey!!!” came a shout just inside the gate. Without missing a beat, Hans pinned Sylvia against the fence and kissed her deeply.

The guard stepped onto the path, saw the two lovers half buried in ivy, and laughed. Sylvia’s heart thumped in her ears until Hans pulled away.

“Do we have to shoot him?” she whispered. “He saw us.”

“But he didn’t recognize me. Do you know how I know?” Hans gave her one more peck for good measure. “He didn’t salute.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------

9:18pm: Arm in arm, the elegant couple strode up the driveway of 84 Avenue Foch, walked up to the guards at the tunnel entrance, and after a brief explanation, the gates opened for them. Perched in a tree on the avenue median, Hugo Stiglitz slung on his rifle and began to make his way to the ground.

9:23pm: “Guten nacht,” Hans called to the front desk concierge as they crossed the lobby to the elevator, Sylvia’s heels clacking on the marble. “Third floor,” she told the bell boy, and smiled at him. Poor guy.

_Ding. _They stepped out onto the third floor, and the elevator doors closed behind them.

Each put on their evening gloves.

Hans flipped a switch, illuminating the deserted typing pool and the long hallway. At the end of this hallway was a window. Hans strode down to it, and pointedly raised and lowered the blind. Twice.

He returned to Sylvia, still waiting by the elevator. He pulled a pistol from inside of his jacket, and pressed it into her hand. She tucked it into her garter belt.

“I suppose we go our separate ways now,” Hans said softly.

“This is a good thing, Hans. I’m glad you’re doing this.”

He lifted her chin with one gloved finger. “Be good.”

“You be gooder.”

He rolled his eyes playfully. “You had better hurry, angel. Aldo will be ‘mad as a March hare’ if you keep him waiting.”

“That’s not...we’ll talk about it later. Godspeed.” Sylvia gave him a mock-serious salute, and disappeared into the unmarked door.

Once on the stairs, she dashed up to the 5th floor, and unzipped her clutch. It was full of wooden doorstops, which she began cramming under every door on her way down. Simple, yet effective.

She reached the bottom floor, with its grim, cobwebbed light bulb, and waited. After a minute or so, she heard rustling on the other side. She squinted. Something had been shoved under the door, a piece of paper?

A gum wrapper.

With an involuntary giggle, she opened the door, and nearly jumped at the sight of Aldo and Donny with machine guns. They immediately pushed past her and headed upstairs. 

“Donny, how is there already blood on your shirt?” she stammered.

“How do ya think we got the van?” Then he was racing up with the others.

Alain stepped in behind them. “I thought you’d like that. I told Aldo it was our secret signal.”

As he began upstairs, the muffled sound of gunfire turned both their heads to the interior door. It was coming from the lobby.

“That’ll be Stiglitz,” said Alain, nervously.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hans stepped out of the elevator on the 6th floor. On a whim, he tried the stairwell door, just in case. Still locked.

No matter. He began unlocking each of the five doors leading into the corridor. He hesitated at the final door, and listened for the sound of gunfire, or a nasal accent, or anything else to indicate the Basterds had made it in. He heard nothing.

He might as well distract whatever simpering young pup they’d thrown onto the desk, then. With a little more effort, the heavy final door gave way.

“Why, Standartenführer, I thought you were at Goebbels’ salon tonight.”

“I rather thought the same of you, Oberst Knuss,” Hans said, letting the door close behind him. _What on earth?_

“With so much of the force at that event, I thought it wise to over-staff a bit. You know.” Knuss’s ruddy face looked tan in the eerie fluorescent light. “In case the natives get restless.”

“You can certainly never be too careful.” Hans casually glanced down the corridor. There were two guards now stationed at the end, near Utivich. And two more on the other side. Twice what he had expected.

“Rotten party, huh?” Knuss let out a weird, belchy laugh. “Poor Goebbels. The man has no friends so he forces the whole SS to show up. What an ape.”

“How did you get out of it?”

“What can I say, the brass know I run a tight ship.” He brandished a cigarette case. “Smoke?”

“No thank you.” Hans fiddled with the francs in his trouser pocket.

“So you sneak out of a party, and come to the 6th floor,” Knuss laughed again. “You sick son of a bitch. What are you here for, torture? No ladies up here, maybe downstairs.”

“Oh? What kind of ladies?” Hans stalled. _Where the hell were the Basterds?_

“Don't get excited, you know the kinda trash we get. Not too many of the young ones end up here. It’s all the same in the dark, though. Don’t worry, I won’t tell your fiancée.” His wink made Hans taste bile.

“I’m afraid I’m a man of refinement, Oberst. I have particular tastes. Not just any will do.”

“Feel free to take a look, but the pickings are slim lately.” Knuss puffed on his cigarette. “But there’s a brothel up the road a bit, if you’ve got time to kill. Ladies there’ll do things to your pecker there aren’t German words for.”

“What sort of things are we talking about?” Hans thought he heard something, and instantly tuned Knuss out to focus.

There it was. Gunshots. A floor down.

Knuss paused his filthy story in alarm. “What the…”

“It’s on the fifth floor!” Hans waved the guards over. “Gunfire! Hurry! Take the stairs!” The guards, unused to any real threat, gawked for a second before hurrying down the stairs.

They were met with immediate machine gun fire.

Knuss’s eyes were bulging. He began fumbling for his gun.

Hans dashed to the wide, uncovered window. It was floor to ceiling, with a little Juliet balcony, in the romantic French style. He pulled it open.

“Oberst, come look! Someone’s escaping!”

Knuss hustled right up to the edge, as expected. Hans pushed him over.

The prison overseer had grabbed the balcony on the way down, and now dangled from it. “You pig-dog!!…you traitorous swine!!!” he wheezed.

Hans kicked hard at his fingers, once, twice. The third did the trick. Knuss fell six stories, landing in the garden with a sickening thud.

Then, the sound he had been waiting for.

Hans turned away from the window just as Aldo and Donny pushed the heavy door open. They were absolutely drenched in blood.

“Son of a goddamn bitch,” Aldo sputtered. “We’re fucking Americans. We counted six floors starting at the bottom.”

“We liberated the wrong goddamn prison.” Donny wiped his brow. “Is this it?”

Hans couldn’t repress a chuckle. He had completely forgotten about the strange American quirk of counting the ground floor as the ‘first floor.’ "I'm sure the fifth floor prisoners are most grateful to your mistake, gentlemen."

With fresh urgency, they opened every cell. Alain, Omar, and Hirschberg waited on the landing to help the prisoners, mostly beaten and emaciated, down the stairs. Donny had torn the stairwell door completely off its hinges.

Utivich let out a whoop of excitement as the bars swung open. “Did ya at least leave one for me to scalp? I want a souvenir,” he laughed, as Donny helped him into the corridor.

Finally, Aldo reappeared from the hallway. “That’s all of ‘em. Just gotta cover our tracks.” He pulled out his pistol to shoot the locks off of the interior doors, as planned.

A sudden noise stopped him cold, and he looked up in time to see something quite rare cross Hans Landa's face: panic.

The phone on the desk was ringing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist an "Americans do this, Europeans do that" mix-up.
> 
> Thanks again to everyone reading and commenting! Your feedback is keeping me afloat as we move into the home stretch. I won't make you wait TOO long for the next chapter, promise!


	24. Second: The Lateral Step

A torrent of freed prisoners, some too battered to walk without the Basterds’ assistance, streamed down the back stairwell of 84 Avenue Foch. Sylvia stepped aside, letting them pour out into the darkness, where Bunny and Omar waited to help them over the fence. She pulled the door shut behind them. The automatic lock clicked.

And now she was alone.

_Hans assigned me to the stairwell to keep me safe, _she thought. _I can’t risk getting hurt anyway, we have to return to the party, it’d blow our cover._

But he was up there himself, right in the middle of the action on the 6th floor. And she was stuck in a musty stairwell, straining to hear…anything. It felt like an eternity had passed since the last prisoner came down. Where were Aldo and Donny, then? Where the hell was Hans?

She felt especially silly in an evening gown and heels.

For the hundredth time, she touched the pistol stuffed in her garter belt. She had never actually shot anyone, and her SOE training felt like another lifetime. Having a gun against her skin made her _more _anxious. She imagined leaning at the wrong angle and accidentally shooting herself in the leg.

Hans would find her, bleeding out on the steps. His eyes would blaze with retribution. _It wasn’t a German, _she would gasp pathetically. _The trigger caught on my garter._

No. She was tough and competent. Brigadier Blackwell handpicked her for his special operations unit, for a reason. This plan had been her idea to begin with. So why did she feel so damn useless?

_BLAM! _A door flung open, and hurried footsteps, many stories up. Sylvia instinctively flattened herself against the far wall. Immediate machine gun fire, deafeningly loud. The footsteps stopped.

“Aw shit. It’s locked,” echoed the thickest Boston accent in the world.

“Goddamnit, Donny,” followed a Tennessee twang. “Think you can get the door down?”

”Ain’t no other way in, Lieutenant.”

Then, a heavy _thud _outside. Her throat tightened. It’s not a sound you need to have heard before to know it immediately.

Cautiously, she cracked the door. A long finger of light touched a motionless lump in SS grey, much too round to be Hans. She quickly closed it again.

What the hell was going on up there? They should’ve left by now, and from the sound of it, they hadn’t entered the 6th floor yet??

A tentative knocking at the outer door. “Sylvia, open up. It’s me.”

She let Alain in. “What’s happening??”

“I think we cleared the wrong floor,” he admitted sheepishly. “No Utivich.”

“Go, then! Hurry!” she urged as he scampered up the stairs.

She desperately wished she had a watch. The performances were scheduled to end at 10, and if they didn’t make it back by then, their absence was sure to be noticed.

Sylvia decided to abandon her post. Time to grab Hans and get the hell out of there. They had done their part.

As she reached the 3rd floor, the second batch of prisoners began to trickle down. A gaunt older man, clinging to the barricade, moved with surprising speed, followed by several men and two young women who drew away from her as they passed.

“I’m American,” she assured them, too late for them to hear her, or care.

Then Alain’s London lilt. “Mind that ankle, Private.”

“It’s Smithson, call me Smithson.”

“_Smithson. _Fascinating name.”

“For a real un-fascinating guy.”

“Now, don’t sell yourself short, Smithson.”

Alain rounded the corner, Utivich leaning on his arm.

“What’s going on up there?” Sylvia demanded.

“Not sure,” he replied smoothly. “I have one job, and that’s getting this fellow to safety.” Without warning, he bundled Utivich into his arms and nearly tumbled backwards from the weight.

“What’re you tryin’ to do, sweep me off my feet?” the private smiled.

“That’s the idea.”

“Will you two quit flirting and get in the van??” Donny bellowed, plowing past them.

“C’mon, Alain, we have to get out of here,” Sylvia pleaded. “Where’s Hans?”

“You’ll find him with Aldo, at each others’ throats, as – “

_BANG! _Someone shot through the stairwell door. All three instinctively dropped. Alain collapsed against the wall, Utivich in his arms.

_BANG! BANG! _Sylvia covered her head as the bullets ricocheted. Then, the _JUT-JUT-JUT-JUT _of close machine gun fire.

The shooting stopped.

“It’s Stiglitz! Open the door!”

With shaking hands, she pulled the wooden wedge out of the threshold, and opened the door. A dead SS officer fell across the landing in front of her, blood rapidly soaking the back of his uniform.

Stiglitz stepped over the corpse, MP40 in hand. “Hello, Sylvia. Fournier, Utivich.”

The dazed private merely nodded from Alain’s lap.

\-------------------------------------------------------

9:42pm - The phone rang insistently once, twice more. Then stopped.

“There is always someone to answer that telephone,” Hans said.

Aldo squinted at the desk. “Internal line?”

“Yes.”

Someone was in the building.

“Who’s supposed to answer it?” Aldo asked.

Hans motioned to the open window. “See for yourself.”

While Hans gathered his keys from the corridor doors, Aldo peered over the Juliet balcony. He let out a long whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“We must leave immediately. Whoever called will be up to investigate.”

Aldo drew his pistol and headed to the first corridor door. “Nah, Stiglitz’ll get ‘em. He’s good at that.”

Hans paled. “I beg your pardon? That was never part of the plan.”

“Nah, that’s just what he does.” Aldo began shooting the lock, mutilating the metal with each shot. _Pting! Pting!_

“You mean to tell me,” Hans said, with barely restrained outrage, “that Hugo is roaming the entire building, indiscriminately shooting everyone he sees?”

Aldo laughed, and began on the second door. “That’s Stiglitz. Can’t deny the man’s gotta gift.”

“This is a blatant deviation from the plan! He is only supposed to clear witnesses!!!”

“Maybe you don’t read the papers, Colonel, but ‘indiscriminately’ killin’ Nah-zis is our whole M.O. Or maybe you forgot whose side you’re on?” _Pting!_

“Allowing…that man to behave outside out of our previously-agreed-upon parameters is extremely disrespectful, and frankly, dangerous.” Hans was fairly vibrating with rage. “You have created a situation far beyond what I signed on for.”

_Pting! Pting!_

“Lieutenant Raine, you do realize I have to return to this building on Monday?? This is my place of business.”

Aldo calmly reloaded his pistol. “Ain’t nobody makin’ you work here, Landa.”

This insolence knocked the wind out of Hans. With a final huff, he headed for the stairwell.

“Thank you kindly for your assistance,” Aldo shouted after him.

\-------------------------------------------------------

“It’s 9:46, we must hurry,” Hans whispered to Sylvia as they stepped out of the stairwell into the back garden. “For the record, we are never working with ‘the Basterds’ again.”

“Okay,” she said, unwilling to argue right now. “Did everyone get out?”

“I’m afraid so,” Hans sniffed. Reckless fools.

As they crossed the lawn, something made her jump.

“I think he’s…” They listened. Labored breathing. “He’s still alive, Hans.”

Hans crossed to where Knuss lay, and in one effortless motion, he pulled his pistol and shot him in the head.

“I wish you hadn’t seen that,” he said, guiding her toward the fence.

“We’re at war. I’ve seen it.”

“That’s not what I meant.” _I wish you hadn’t seen me, _he thought. _The unrepentant killer. _

Sylvia kicked her shoes through the bars of the fence, and scowled up at the wrought iron spikes. “I’m gonna tear my dress.”

“I’ll lift you,” Hans offered but trailed off as she unzipped and shimmied her gown to her ankles.

“Hold this.” He clutched the filmy fabric in his hands as she began to climb.

For decades to come, this would be the image of Sylvia he cherished most: barefoot, stripped to her underwear, hoisting herself over the back fence of SS headquarters, her beaded clutch in her teeth.

She dropped to the other side. He handed her gown to her, and began climbing himself.

“Who was that on the landing?” she asked.

“No one important,” Hans grunted, pulling himself up.

“Bullshit. I saw your reaction.”

Hans carefully swung his leg over, avoiding the spikes, and joined her on the ground. “Otto Frick. Head of clandestine operations.”

Sylvia paused. “He should’ve been at the salon.”

“He certainly shouldn’t have been on the 3rd floor.”

She turned so he could zip her up. “You think he was snooping in your office?”

“There is no doubt in my mind.”

“Edward must’ve told him what he knows,” Sylvia whispered, smoothing her hair. “Shit, Hans. Who else has he told?”

“It’ll still be his word versus mine.” Hans took her arm, and they returned to the little side path, and its cloying smell of honeysuckle. The streetlamps cast long shadows across Avenue Foch. “Who do you think Barenboim would believe? Or Himmler, or Goebbels? Or even the Führer?”

\-----------------------------------------------------

The lights were on. The guests were mingling. The performances had long since ended.

Sylvia surreptitiously wiped the sweat from her hairline as they took a seat along the wall.

“Breathe, angel,” Hans instructed. She tried.

“There you are, Landa!” Weissman, Goebbels’ assistant adjutant, stepped in front of them, hands on his hips like a stern schoolmarm. “Now, where on earth did you lovebirds slip off to, hmm?”

Hans squeezed her hand. “Look at her, Hauptsturmführer. If a creature this lovely had agreed to marry you, wouldn’t you slip off with her at every opportunity?”

Sylvia affected a blush.

“Naughty, naughty, Standartenführer!” Weissman let out one of his unnerving laughs. “You’ve kept Goebbels and Himmler waiting with your shenanigans! Come!”

Hans stood to join him. Weissman waggled a finger in Sylvia’s face, before ushering Hans into the adjoining library.

_Ugh. _

Sylvia scanned the room. The guests were drinking, chatting, laughing, the orchestra playing some inoffensive medley. No one knew…yet.

There were plenty of high-ranking Nazis she recognized, and many more she didn’t. Near the bar, she noticed a young soldier, flanked by young women who were hanging on his every word. Even the other soldiers stopped to fawn over him.

She approached a small cluster of Nazi mistresses. “Excuse me, pardon my ignorance,” she opened, in her homespun Ilse accent. “I don’t know who that young soldier is. He seems to be famous!”

“Oh, goodness, Miss Bronner,” one of them laughed, gesturing with her wine glass. “That’s Frederick Zoller! He’s a war hero!”

“Goebbels made a movie about him,” another one, a brunette draped in diamonds. “He shot hundreds of Russians.”

“Wow,” Sylvia gasped, now wondering how to extricate herself from these women.

“Why not speak to him? You’re pretty, I bet he’d go for you,” urged a petite blonde.

“She’s Standartenführer Landa’s fiancee, stupid,” snapped the wine glass bearer. 

The blonde’s eyes sparkled. “I’m so envious. Imagine having a man like that.”

“I don’t have to,” Sylvia lowered her eyes shyly. “He’s wonderful.”

“Well, no offense,” the brunette butted in. “But I’d rather have a Zoller myself. So young and virile.”

“Landa is plenty virile,” Wine Glass retorted, and winked at Sylvia. “Isn’t he? He has quite the reputation, you lucky duck.”

“What does that mean?” she stammered.

“Oh, I just mean his…talents are well-known in Paris.”

Sylvia almost wished the news would break, just to end this conversation.

Thankfully, she felt a reassuring hand on her shoulder within seconds. “Are you ready, angel?”

The mistresses' venomous smiles trailed them to the elevator.

\-------------------------------------------

The breeze from the open windows tousled Sylvia’s hair as she nestled into Hans in the backseat. The chauffeur turned onto Avenue Foch, heading downtown. Paris had never seemed so dark, so quiet.

“Marry me,” Hans whispered.

At first, she wasn’t sure she heard him correctly. “Hans, you know we can’t. Not yet.”

“We can. I’ll take care of it.”

“It’s too much hassle, we have to wait,” she muttered, eyeballing the driver. He appeared not to be listening but she was no fool.

“We were quite a sensation tonight.” He pressed his lips to her ear. “How would you like to celebrate?”

“A hot bath and 10 hours of sleep, honestly.”

“Are you sure that’s all?” he urged.

“Oh Hans, maybe in the morning. I’m worn out.”

“Understandable. You trained hard for tonight. You were splendid.”

They shared a secret smile in the dark.

“What did Himmler want?” she asked.

“Well, my dear girl, how would you like to marry an Oberführer? I may be promoted soon.”

She felt dizzy. “Well, that’s…great, Hans.”

“That’s the highest rank in my division, wouldn’t that make you proud?” Hans’ face was inscrutable.

“Let’s talk about it later.” She leaned into his arm but something was nagging her, and it had been nagging her for a long time now. She closed her eyes and willed it away, as the first of many Gestapo vehicles screamed past them in the opposite direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah, ya filthy animals!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and commenting!
> 
> ** quick historical note: Goebbels was head of the Reich Chamber of Culture, which strictly controlled which artists and movements were allowed within Nazi Germany (dance fell under the 'theater' subdivision.) I read that he oversaw an annual dance festival (!!!) to promote "culturally appropriate" dance. I don't have any hard evidence of private salons, as described here, but with his inflated self-importance and pretensions of *artistic talent,* it's very plausible.


	25. Third: Completing the Turn

Sylvia once again found herself adrift on an open sea, the sky as white as a blank page, the horizon as wide as a lifetime. A current rolled beneath her, urged her along, but where? The safety of shore, or further out to sea? 

She awoke with a start, and realized Hans had never gone to bed. Pulling her robe around her, she found him in his study, his dress tunic thrown across the still-made bed, telephone receiver pressed to his shoulder, reassuring someone in German that the criminals would certainly be captured, that he was the Reich’s most ruthless defender, that he wouldn’t rest until justice was served.

At last, he hung up, and rubbed his eyes deeply. “_Guten Morgen, _angel.”

“Oh, Hans.” She stroked his hair back from his forehead. “You need rest.”

“And leave the motherland to lick her own wounds? God forbid.” He smiled mischievously but the strain showed.

“Does anyone suspect…”

“On the contrary.” With a deep stretch, he stood. “I’ve been made head of security in Paris.”

Her jaw dropped.

“You’re surprised.”

“I mean, I thought we could pull it off, but…”

Hans took her by the shoulders. “Sylvia, what did I tell you the day I stole you?”

“’The cheese isn’t poisoned’?” she smirked.

“Yes, but also: stay with me, and you will survive the war.” He pressed a quick kiss to her lips, and began to dress.

“But…Hans…”

“That was Goebbels on the telephone. He wants me in charge of security for his big film premiere.”

“Oh, yeah. Zoller. ‘The Nation’s Hero.’” She recalled the charismatic young soldier at the salon, how officers and women alike hung around for a crumb of his attention.

“The very same.”

“Ugh.” Another night of forced smiles and swallowed vomit, charming the very men who wanted her dead.

“Well, my dear, I must be off to work.” Hans buttoned the top of his tunic, with its single oak leaf insignia on the lapels. Soon, they would be the double oak leaves of an Oberführer. “I may be home late. Our American friends left quite a mess for me to clean up.”

_Wait, sit down, I need to ask you something, _she longed to say. But he was already cinching the belt of his tunic, the eagle-topped-swastika buckle briefly catching the sunlight.

\-------------------------------------------

Armed troops lined Avenue Foch en route to 84, with extensive checkpoints in both directions. As the driveway itself was part of the crime scene, a cluster of Abwehr had to move before Hans’ car could pull up to the gate. The new guard asked Hans for ID, then apologized profusely when he saw it.

From the lobby alone, with multiple areas cordoned off for SD investigation – everywhere a body had been found, essentially – Hans foresaw a 12-hour workday, minimum. Cursing the Basterds under his breath, he headed into the stairwell, and up to the third floor, which he was pleased to find had been sealed off to other investigators, at his request.

A chalk outline on the landing was all that remained of Otto Frick, head of clandestine operations.

“Whatever brings you to the third floor, Otto? And during a mandatory attendance event, nonetheless,” Hans clucked, then stepped neatly over the outline onto the third floor proper.

He immediately felt shell casings under his boots. Glancing down the hallway, he could see his office door wide open. Ah.

The folders on his desk were askew, and one of the drawers hadn’t even been closed all the way. “You insult my intelligence, Otto,” Hans muttered. Still, he was relieved that nothing appeared to be missing.

So Stiglitz’s little rampage had stopped Frick’s investigation in its tracks. Next stop: Otto’s office on the fourth floor, to ensure no paper trail remained.

_I must send Hugo a little something. A nice fruit basket, perhaps, _Hans thought with a chuckle.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

Sylvia barely saw Hans at all that week, as both the 84 Foch investigations and the pressing concerns of his new security position kept him working late every night. Alone in the townhouse, she practiced the conversation she’d been putting off for a month now.

She had finally found the words for the dread gnawing at the edges of her happiness with Hans, and as frightening as it was to bring it out in the open, she knew they couldn’t move forward any other way.

At last, Saturday came, and Hans was on the settee with a German newspaper.

Sylvia took a moment on the stairs to steel herself.

She heard the newspaper crinkle. “Yes, Sylvia?”

There was no catching Hans off-guard. She took a deep breath.

“What happens if Germany wins?”

He peered at her curiously over his reading glasses. “That’s hardly worth worrying about. Germany hasn’t a chance of winning.”

She descended the rest of the way into the living room. “Please, Hans. Humor me. I need to know.”

He folded the newspaper and set it on the coffee table. “My dear girl, the Russians are trampling us in Poland at this very moment. We are comically vulnerable on every front, and there are far more Allied troops waiting to invade France than just our friends in the woods. Meanwhile, from an internal standpoint, the Reich is swallowing its own tail with such gusto that invasion may not even be necessary.” Noting her serious expression, he continued, “but supposing Germany somehow ekes out a victory, very little will change for you, as you have the good fortune to be loved by a high-ranking officer who will always protect you. Do you find that satisfactory?”

She stood before him, knees trembling. “No, Hans, I’m sorry. I don’t find that satisfactory.”

“What is it, then?” Hans smoothed the settee next to him, for her to sit.

She refused. “If Germany wins, will you resign from the SS?”

“Certainly not. My position is what protects us. Without it we’re fugitives.”

“I’d rather be a fugitive than a Nazi’s wife,” Sylvia blurted out.

Hans raised his eyebrows. “You’ve been a Nazi’s fiancée for months now.”

“No, no, not in real life, I haven’t. That’s cover, Hans. That’s Ilse you’re engaged to, not Sylvia.” She held up her left hand, devoid of ‘Ilse’s’ engagement ring. “I can’t be Ilse forever.”

“Consider what you really mean when you say that,” Hans said carefully. “’Ilse’ rides in cars and eats in restaurants. ‘Ilse’ sleeps in a warm bed, safe from her enemies. I understand you’re tired of playing pretend, but I don’t believe you want to give these things up.”

“I don’t care about those things, Hans! I…I need to know your loyalties.”

“My loyalties? Really, Sylvia? That ought to be quite plain to you by now,” he scoffed, a little wounded.

“You just said you wouldn’t resign!”

“Yes, to protect you!”

Sylvia tipped her head back, willing the tears away. “Every day you put on that uniform. Every day you go to work for the Reich. You take the promotions. You take the money. You enjoy the privileges.”

“Yes, every day I go to work. And lie, and obfuscate, and falsify paperwork, and send my men on wild goose chases, and tell my superiors whatever will keep them off my back, is that what you consider loyalty to the Reich?”

“I think you love it too much to quit,” she said, crossing her arms. “You want to have your cake and eat it, too.”

He smiled. “As far as my ‘loving’ the Reich, there’s a number of freed prisoners and dead Germans who might argue that point.”

“You’re not listening to me, Hans!”

Hans stood and placed his hands on her shoulders. “My dear girl, what is it you ask of me? I understand your discomfort with my work –“

“You don’t understand it.” She wrenched away. “You couldn’t possibly understand.”

His eyes were pained. “If I resign, I put you in danger. I have enemies in the SS building a case against me as we speak. We need that uniform. No matter how you feel about it, it’s keeping us alive.”

“No matter how I feel about it?? Hans, I’m a Jew!!”

“Yes, I’m quite aware of that, Sylvia. But I’m afraid your safety is more important to me than your discomfort. It will all be over soon enough.”

“So, what I’m hearing is that you won’t walk away from the Reich, and all of its benefits, until the Allies or someone else forces your hand? Is that accurate??”

“What _I’m _hearing is that your obsession with moral purity trumps not only your survival instinct, but our relationship,” Hans snapped. “Is _that _accurate?”

On the verge of an embarrassing breakdown, Sylvia turned and marched stiffly up the stairs to her room, refusing to let a tear fall until safely behind closed doors.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

At the edge of the lush Bois du Boulogne, a young man in plum corduroys read a magazine on a bench, lackadaisically bouncing his knee. After some time, a young woman in dark sunglasses stopped on the sidewalk, her blonde curls tucked under a kerchief.

“Hey, you,” said Alain.

“Hey yourself.” Sylvia lowered the sunglasses. “You wanna walk? I’m antsy.”

“Yes, let’s.” Alain left the magazine and they began to stroll the perimeter of the Bois, which, like all public parks, had been closed and neglected under occupation. It had grown quite wild in just three years, the manicured lawns giving way to tall weeds. Birds chattered triumphantly from the underbrush.

“So,” Sylvia began. “How’s everyone? I haven’t heard from anyone since that night.”

Previously, among members of Majorette, ‘that night’ had meant the L’Etoile blast. Now, it was the 84 Foch break-in.

“As you can imagine, all of the Basterds are exactly the same,” Alain chortled.

“What about yours, then?”

“Smithson?” He pinkened. “Oh, he’s excellent. I’m taking good care of him.”

“I’m sure you are.”

Alain laid a hand across his chest in mock offense. “How dare you suspect _me _of impropriety.”

She laughed. “So you’re already an item. You always move fast.”

“Oh, he’s darling, Sylvia. Just darling, that boy. He loves poetry. He _writes _poetry. He won’t show it to me, though.”

“He will, he wouldn’t have brought it up otherwise.” She took a breath. “Are the other Basterds, do they…”

“They’re fine with it, actually. They knew about him beforehand. We share a tent and everything. I mean, they tease, complain about the noise but, really, they’re quite accepting.”

“Huh.” Sylvia was genuinely surprised. She hadn’t expected the most brutal guerrilla unit in the US Army to be so open-minded about sexuality. “That’s really wonderful, Alain. I’m so happy for you.”

“We just fit together. Like we’ve known each other for years.” Alain’s face was aglow. “We’re disgusting, we finish each other’s sentences and all that. Shows how foolish I was to stay with Philippe so long. That was nothing compared to this.”

“Philippe was a sweet kid. Just be glad you and Smithson found each other.”

They walked in silence for a minute, enjoying the sun on their faces.

“So how’s Bunny, then?” Sylvia asked.

“Bunny’s been…very quiet. I think it messed her up a bit, all the tortured prisoners she saw that night. One of them died at the safe house. Did they tell you?”

She shook her head.

“Well, he’d been beaten about the head, quite badly. He was drifting in and out of consciousness when we carried him out. So Bunny stayed up all night with him, because she knew how serious it was, pressure on the brain and all that. But he died before morning.” Alain slid his hands into his trouser pockets. “She’s been different since.”

“I didn’t even know she was a nurse.”

“That’s just it. She’s _not. _One semester shy of certification. Can you believe that? She would’ve been a Red Cross nurse soon enough but SOE came calling first. She couldn’t stand to wait.”

“Yeah, I know that feeling.”

They rounded the corner and nearly collided with an elderly woman. Sylvia apologized, and waited until she was well out of earshot to continue. “Have you heard from anyone else?”

“Not directly. Word is Anne-Marie got arrested, but no one knows where.”

“Anne-Marie got arrested?” Sylvia tried to imagine hard-assed Anne-Marie rolling her pungent little cigarettes behind bars. “Good luck to the Nazis, honestly.”

“They’ll need it,” Alain chuckled. “Speaking of Nazis, how’s yours?”

“Don’t.”

“He’s a Nazi, isn’t he?”

“Oh Alain,” Sylvia sputtered, her defenses giving way. “We’ve been arguing. He doesn’t want to give it up, the power and the uniform. I think he loves it, actually. Being in the SS.”

He pondered for a moment. “Well, his position allows him to get away with things. He’s been using it for good, right?”

“Sure, but…what if Germany wins and he just…never steps down? He’ll go on taking the money and enjoying the prestige and loving every minute of it. And what’ll I do?”

“I really don’t think Germany will win, Sylvia.”

“That’s what he says! Oh, ‘the invasion is coming,’ ‘the Allies are already in position,’ ‘the Reich is hopeless.’ I just…I think he’s counting on the Reich to fall. He’s unwilling to walk away.”

“Luckily, he has you to testify on his behalf when it happens. Otherwise he’d be right up against the wall.”

She glowered behind her sunglasses. “Maybe that’s the only reason he took me home. What if that was his plan all along? I’m just an insurance policy.”

“That’s absolute bullshit and you know it,” Alain retorted. “He loves you.”

“He does now but…taking me home from the prison was pure selfishness. He just wanted to fuck me. And then later he could say, look at this good thing I did, I saved a Jew’s life.” 

“So what? Even if it was selfish, that was months and months ago. Look how much has changed since then. It’s obvious how much he loves you, even Aldo commented on it.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “Aldo? Really?”

“Yes, really. He sees the effect you have on Hans. Everyone does. You’ve made him a better man, Sylvia.”

“He’s talking about marriage, Alain. Really getting married. Not cover.”

“Do you want to marry him?”

“I’m pretty sure…but…”

“But he’s a Nazi.”

“I just need to know he’s not a bad person,” she sighed. “I need to know he’ll give up his power and position to do the right thing.”

Alain gave her a pitying smile. “That’s asking a lot.”

“I know it is. And I know he’s…he’s killed a lot of people. He’s done terrible things. I know who he was before, I’m not an idiot.”

“No one said you were.”

“But you were thinking it, right? Who gets mixed up with an SS officer, then has a fucking crisis over his morals??”

Alain draped an arm around her shoulders. “You, darling. Only you.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------

Sylvia was reading in bed when Hans got in, late that night. His footsteps stopped on the landing, and she braced herself for his knock.

“Yes?” she called.

Framed by light in the doorway, he seemed small and vulnerable. “I owe you an apology.”

She lifted the edge of the covers. “Come on.”

“No matter how we quarrel, you’ve never once kicked me out of bed,” Hans observed, sliding in alongside her. “I love that about you.”

“I have priorities.” They kissed. “Now, continue apologizing.”

“I’m sorry I dismissed your concerns,” Hans said, propping his head on his arm. “And I’m sorry I raised my voice at you.”

“Apology accepted.” Sylvia flipped over to face him. “Can I say something?”

“Yes, you may.”

“I think you’re selfish, egotistical, obsessed with your own genius, borderline amoral, and I shouldn’t trust you with a goldfish, much less with my life.”

Hans cringed. “That’s…probably a fair assessment.”

“However, you also risked your life for mine, and I never really thanked you for it. So, thank you. For saving me.”

“You fool,” he cooed, pulling her close. “You’re the one who saved me.”

They luxuriated in each other’s warmth.

“What are we going to do, Hans?” she murmured.

“The one thing we can do,” he replied, drawing his hands along her back to her ass. “End the war.”

“What?” But his kiss turned her question to a whimper, the blood rushing away from her brain as he gently nudged her legs open.

“Precisely what I said.” He began to move against her, as he trailed kisses up her neck. “We are in this position because of the war. Therefore, if we wish the situation to improve, we must end the war ourselves.”

“You’re insane,” she giggled.

“Your birthday is coming up. Wouldn’t that be a nice present?” His tone remained casual, as he slipped one, then two fingers inside of her. “The Reich is on its last leg. Suppose we gave it a shove?”

“I can’t stand you!!” Sylvia gasped, kissing him deeply, fully under his spell, as usual.

\-------------------------------------------------------------

The telegram arrived the next afternoon, while Sylvia was home alone. It was in German so badly conjugated and strung together she had to sit down and concentrate to understand it. It translated to:

Dear Uncle Hans:

We want to come to the big movie premiere (STOP) You know how we love picture shows (STOP) Call us at home (STOP) We miss you so very much (STOP) Your favorite nephews – Alden and Dön

Sylvia laughed and laughed. She wasn’t sure how the Basterds knew about the premiere, but suddenly, she was looking forward to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're heading into the climax now. Only a few more chapters to go!
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading, for your kind comments, for your own fics about Hans and Sylvia, it's all so appreciated!! I love writing in this world so much, I'm not sure I'll be able to stop when this story ends!
> 
> I wish you all a very happy new year, and all the best for 2020. May your cheese never be poisoned!


	26. The Projectionist

As the days wore on, Hans found the jagged terrain of his memory more and more exposed, as by a receding tide. Individual faces, voices, sense memories of past violence asserted themselves out of nowhere, with startling clarity. He understood that they were not content to stay buried, and never would be again.

The nausea would come over him with such intensity he had to grip the edge of his desk, close his eyes, measure each breath until the panic subsided. 

He woke frequently now as if recoiling from a hot stove, their screams still fresh, the silence of the bedroom magnifying the echo for hideous seconds after. 

And she slept through it, or pretended to. He never attempted to wake her, only watched the rise and fall of her breath, and marveled that such a being could sleep peacefully beside him.

No, this was his burden alone. And, paradoxically, the balm of forgetting wore thinner and thinner. How many times had a younger Hans scoffed at the notion of a conscience? In practice, he now found it was much less Jiminy Cricket, and more ‘bedbug infestation.’

\-----------------------------------------------

“Gentlemen, it would seem our individual plans overlap so elegantly, it can only be fate’s kiss of approval. However, in my official capacity, I have learned of two very interesting developments which must alter our respective courses,” Hans announced, borderline giddy, to the handful of Basterds gathered before him. “Therefore, I come to you with a proposal.”

“Well shit, aint’cha gonna get down on one knee?” Aldo drawled from across the table.

“The first development is that, at the behest of his young star, Goebbels is considering moving the premiere to a much smaller cinema.”

Donny, Omar, and Aldo exchanged looks.

“Big changes at the last minute?” Aldo said, baffled. “Not very Germanic. Why is Goebbels doing things so damn peculiar?”

“Patience, Aldo. Are you ready for the second development?” Hans grinned. “I clearly see that you aren’t, but I will tell you anyway. _Der Führer is now attending the premiere._”

He sat back to enjoy the fallout.

“Fuck a duck!” Donny yelled.

“Are you fucking serious??” Omar squeaked.

“Goddamnit, Landa, if you don’t get our asses into that premiere.” Aldo had the look of a dog at a weenie roast.

“It can be done. But first, my proposal.” Hans unrolled a seating chart, where he had penciled in the names of prominent attendees. “I draw your attention to the mezzanine boxes: Bormann, Goering, Goebbels, and here, Hitler himself. Unfortunately, I have to assign armed guards to the box, but that should be no obstacle for professionals such as yourselves, especially if we end up at this, the smaller venue.” He tapped the center box with his index finger. “Kill all four, and you end the war. So, gentlemen, shall we end the war this Friday night?”

Aldo chewed on his words carefully before speaking. “I don’t mean no offense, Landa, but where I come from, it behooves oneself to keep his wits. In short, ya hear somethin’ a little too good to be true? It ain’t.”

“What’s too good to be true?” Hans shrugged.

“Yer really gonna light up the whole high command and blow your own cover to hell, just outta the goodness of your heart?”

“Ah, yes, I anticipated your distrust.” Hans rolled up the seating chart and tucked it back into its paper tube. “Perhaps our last adventure insufficiently proved my loyalties. Well, gentlemen, believe me, there is no one more eager to see the Reich go up in flames than myself. At this point, some might even call it a mercy killing, but frankly, it’s time Germany got what it deserves.”

“What are you and Sylvia gonna do then?” Donny asked.

“By the time the fatal blow is dealt, we will be on our way to the Allied lines for my immediate surrender,” Hans explained calmly. “Which you boys will have helpfully mentioned to OSS ahead of time, and which I’m confident they will be most grateful for, if you catch my drift.”

“You treasonous son of a bitch,” Aldo laughed.

“Thank you. Let us just say, I know the value of my services.”

“So what’s the plan?” Donny diverted, eyes aglow. “How’re we gettin’ in the theat-eh?”

Hans sighed. “My beloved Basterds, what we are not going to do is kick in the door and start mowing down everyone in sight.”

Aldo snorted. “Well, we ain’t plannin’ on neckin’ in the back row.”

“Heh,” Omar piped up. “Smitty and Alain might.”

Donny glared at him.

“It’s a very effective method, under the correct circumstances,” Hans said diplomatically. “But this is a more delicate situation. I’m thinking we should pass you off as relations of mine from Austria.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Therefore, Wicki and Sylvia will do the bulk of the talking, and I must ask you to please, please yield all conversation to them.”

“Hey, I know a little German,” Donny protested. “_Eins zwei drei. _Uh, _nicht.”_

“Yeah, goo-ten tah-g,” Aldo added.

“As I said, Sylvia and Wicki will do the bulk of the talking.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------

After the meeting, Hans walked around the block to find his Mercedes gleaming in the sun, freshly polished. Even the interiors had been thoroughly cleaned.

There was a present for Sylvia on the passenger seat, in a paper bag: three packets of American instant coffee.

\-------------------------------------------------------------

“I have nothing against Nantucket. I’ve never even been to Nantucket.” Sylvia eased another lump of latke batter into the pan and let it sizzle. “I’m just surprised you wanna go there, is all.”

Sylvia had never been much of a cook. Latkes were one of the few things she could confidently make without a recipe. Thankfully, fried potatoes translated into every culture.

“Think of it, angel. The beach, the ocean, peace and quiet. An entire house to ourselves.” Hans took a thoughtful drag on his pipe. “We’ll go there when we need a break from New York.”

“There’s no bridge to Nantucket, Hans. The only way on or off the island is by ferry boat. That’s how remote it is.”

“Precisely.”

“How are we going to afford two homes?” Sylvia began patting the latkes into shape with the spatula. “I don’t make much money as a secretary.”

“I will arrange it.” Hans set his pipe down, and joined her in front of the stove. “And I won’t have you wasting that brain of yours typing correspondence for some idiot businessman.”

“Fine by me.”

Hans wrapped both arms around her chest, and rested his chin on her head. “We are doing the Allies a tremendous favor. They will be grateful. Trust me.”

“So we’re really doing this,” Sylvia breathed. “Really, truly doing this.”

Whether out of superstition, or the not-so-paranoid fear that the Gestapo were listening, she couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud: _assassinating Hitler._

“We can still back out,” Hans said gently. “Our American friends will be rather disappointed, though.”

“No, I want to. I definitely want to. I’m just…” Sylvia stared at the slowly browning latkes. “Can we at least keep the cinema workers out of danger? They’re innocent.”

“I’ll do what I can, angel. One night, one unpleasant hour at most, and it’s all over. The Reich, the war, and all of our troubles. Then we, not to mention the countless lives saved by our actions, live happily ever after.” He kissed the top of her head.

“I just wish you’d defect now. There’s so much that could go wrong.”

“And imagine how much could go wrong if we’re not in charge. Do you want to take orders from some American general?”

“Well, when you put it that way.” Sylvia broke free for a moment to flip the latkes. “I trust you, Hans. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I do.”

“I’ve gotten us this far, haven’t I?” He paused, and leaned over the pan to sniff theatrically. “Mmm.”

“Go get the sour cream out of the icebox if you want to be helpful,” she snickered.

\-------------------------------------------------------

“How about this one? Does it scream, ‘young and desperate’?” Bunny held up a clingy, off-the-shoulder number in red.

“Is that your cover, then? Young and desperate?” Sylvia said.

“Hannelore Kircher.” Bunny clutched the gown to her body dramatically. “The movie star wannabe, who never will be.”

“_Que sera, sera_.”

Bunny added it to the try-on pile. “Aren’t you getting anything?”

“Nah...Hans’ tailor is making me one.”

“Ooh la la, to be a kept woman,” Bunny clucked.

“Hey now, we’re going to be married. After all this, I mean.”

“Good for you. Make an honest Nazi out of him.”

“I will slug you,_ Hannelore_.”

“You won’t because I’d break you over my knee.”

Sylvia considered. “Yeah...yeah, you would.”

\--------------------------------------------------------

“Then ya gonna press the clutch,” Donny instructed.

The jeep lurched forward, then abruptly stopped.

Donny turned to Utivich. “Why didn’t ya press the clutch? I told ya to press the clutch.”

“You said ‘you’re gonna,’ I didn’t think you meant NOW,” Utivich protested. “Um. Remind me which one is the clutch again.”

“Alright, alright, no more ‘gonna,’ just do what I say.” Donny soothed, attempting to defuse the anxiety. “That’s the clutch, that’s the brake, that’s the gas, got it??”

Utivich nodded, wide-eyed.

“Okay. Let’s pull into the street.”

Utivich stiffly placed his hands at the correct o’clocks. “When you say ‘street,’ do you mean those tire ruts, or the mud patch?”

“The ruts, slide into the ruts.”

“Look to the left, Utivich. Check for traffic,” Wicki commented from the backseat. 

“Yeah, yeah, he knows there’s gonna be traffic, we’re just focusing on the basics right now,” Donny shot back.

Wicki shook his head solemnly. “The premiere is the day after tomorrow. He has to pass for a chauffeur by then.”

“I know the goddamn premi-eh is the day after tomorrow, Wicki! You think I’m fuckin’ stupid?”

“I didn’t say you were stupid, Donny.”

“Can you two-- can you please, I’m--” Utivich stammered. “I’m trying to focus.”

They shut up, just long enough for Utivich to very gingerly bring the jeep down the hill, and with a little bounce, slide into the well-worn path.

He lifted his shaking hands from the steering wheel. “Hey, I did it. I drove!”

“Good for you. Oh blech, why you sweatin’ so much, Smitty? Ain’t nothin to be nervous about.” Donny began to mop Utivich’s face with his handkerchief. 

“You’re doing great,” Wicki added. “But don’t sweat too much. It looks suspicious.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Utivich grumbled.

\------------------------------------------------

The tavern was unusually crowded for late afternoon. As Hans “entschuldigung”-ed his way through the main dining room, he spied Goebbels’ greasy head and his mistress Francesca through a doorway. Facing them was a petite blonde.

“Ah! Landa! You are here!” Goebbels crowed. Major Hellstrom and Frederick Zoller leapt to their feet in salute.

“Emmanuelle, this is Standartenführer Hans Landa,” Zoller gushed to the young woman. “He’ll be running security for the premiere.”

Landa plucked the blonde’s tiny hand from the table, and lifted it to his lips. Her terror was palpable.

The rest of the table stood, something about Goebbels needing to get to an appointment. “French slave driver, am I right?” he screeched, Francesca playfully slapping his arm.

Emmanuelle began to stand. Hans gently pushed her back into her chair. He could hardly explain why with Goebbels, Hellstrom, and Zoller in the room.

“Actually, in my role as security chief of this joyous German occasion, I must have a word with Mademoiselle Mimieux,” Hans announced, with no shortage of authority.

“What sort of discussion?” Zoller snapped.

Hans regarded the young soldier with disdain. “That sounded suspiciously like a private questioning the order of a Standartenführer. Or am I just being sensitive?”

Zoller visibly shrank. “Nothing could be further from the truth, Standartenführer. Your authority is beyond question.”

“Hans, the boy means no harm,” Goebbels stepped in. “He’s simply smitten.”

“No need for concern, you two. As security chief, I simply need to have a chat with this possible new venue’s property owner,” Hans said, with a disarming smile.

At last, Zoller kissed the young woman’s hand, and reluctantly walked away. Hans waited until Zoller had cleared the main dining room before taking a seat.

‘Emmanuelle’….that couldn’t be her real name, could it? She was waifish, and seemed as jumpy as an exposed nerve.

“Have you tried the strudel here?” Hans asked, smoothly shifting to French.

“No, no,” she said hesitantly.

“It is not so terrible.” The waiter appeared, and Hans ordered for both of them. “Two strudel, one for myself and one for the mademoiselle.” He paused for a moment. “For me, an espresso, for her, a glass of milk.”

No one as anxious as this young lady needs caffeine, he thought.

“So, mademoiselle,” he began. “How did you become acquainted with Private Zoller?”

She avoided his eyes. “Up until a couple of days ago, I had no knowledge of Private Zoller, or his exploits. To me, the Private was simply a patron of my cinema. We spoke a few times but—“

Ah. So there was nothing between them but Zoller’s entitlement. Good to know.

“Mademoiselle, this is a simple formality. No reason for you to feel anxious.” Hans gave her his warmest smile, and she smiled, awkwardly, in return.

She was no German sympathizer. That much was clear. But what was she hiding?

The waiter reappeared, with two strudels and their drinks. “Oh, I apologize. I forgot to order the cream,” Hans chuckled.

Emmanuelle lifted her fork.

“Wait for the cream,” Hans cautioned. He stirred a few spoonfuls of sugar into his espresso. “So, Emmanuelle, how does it happen that a young lady such as yourself comes to own a cinema?”

The waiter arrived with the cream, dropping two big dollops onto their strudels.

“After you,” Hans said, unfolding his napkin.

The young woman took a small bite and chewed anxiously.

“So? Verdict?”

She merely nodded.

“As I said, not so terrible.” Hans began on his, relishing the flaky pastry for a moment before returning to his interview. “You were explaining the origin of your cinema ownership.”

“The cinema originally belonged to my aunt and uncle, Jean-Pierre and Ada Mimieux,” Emmanuelle said, barely above a whisper.

“Where are they now?”

“My uncle was killed during Blitzkrieg.”

Hans swallowed. “Pity.”

“Aunt Ada passed away from fever last spring.”

“Regrettable,” Hans said softly. A transparent fabrication. Who inherited major property from their aunt and uncle? Theories began to swim laps in his mind, but for now, he had business to take care of.

“How many workers do you have in your employ?” he asked.

“One. Marcel. Projectionist.” She seemed especially anxious about this one. Who was _Marcel_?

Hans sipped his espresso. There had to be a projectionist on site, but if they stayed in the booth, they’d be out of danger when the shooting began. “Can you operate the projectors?”

“_Oui.”_

“Well, mademoiselle, if it comes to pass that we hold this event at your venue, I think it best that you operate the projectors, and no other employees be on the premises.” He watched her reaction closely. “Is that acceptable?”

She looked down. “_Oui.”_

There was no way to telegraph to this young woman that he may have just saved her life. Instead, he offered her a cigarette. She accepted.

“They are not French. They are German,” he apologized.

They smoked in uneasy silence for a moment.

Another thought: suppose this young woman had a plot of her own? Surely not on the scale of theirs. But what were the chances that her plot interfered with Operation Kino?

She may be young, physically small, and a mediocre liar, but she was certainly on their side. Could she be of use?

She studied him, her clear blue eyes inscrutable. She didn’t look Jewish but perhaps…

“I did have something else I wanted to ask you,” Hans said, flicking ash onto the plate.

Emmanuelle met his gaze. Something wordless passed between them.

Hans broke it with a chuckle. “But right now, for the life of me, I can’t remember what it is. Oh well, must not have been important.” He stubbed out his cigarette on the half-eaten strudel. “Till tonight.”

One more polite kiss on her hand, and he departed.

Were this any other week, he would have gone to 84 Foch and began investigating “Emmanuelle Mimieux” and her mysterious cinema ownership. But this was no ordinary project, and indeed, what he had set into motion ensured nothing would be “ordinary” again. Instead, he got into his Mercedes, and headed home. He and Sylvia were seeing a film tonight.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

The cinema was even smaller than Sylvia had imagined, but beautiful, with an abundance of polished wood, brass details, and clean Art Deco lines. Emmanuelle had walked them around the theater, shown them the boxes, the restrooms, the cloak room, and each of the exits. Hans had taken copious notes. Now, Zoller’s favorite film lit up the screen.

She sat between Hans and Emmanuelle in a middle row, watching _Glückskinder _(Lucky Kids), a musical comedy from the 30s. It was silly and charming, and she felt a little pang of guilt when she caught herself enjoying it.

“_Ich wollt', ich wär' ein Huhn,” _the actors chirped. “I wish I were a chicken, I wish I were a chicken. I’d lay just one egg in the morning and be free in the afternoons.”

Goebbels and Francesca guffawed two rows behind them.

Sylvia glanced over to see Zoller’s hand closing possessively over Emmanuelle’s. She seemed absolutely miserable.

Hans was certainly right, she was hiding something. Perhaps active in the resistance. What else might they have in common? There was no way to ask without risking both of their covers and the entire operation.

So she sat quietly in the dark, between her beloved Nazi saboteur, and the frightened young woman who could never know they were on her side.

On the screen, 20-foot-tall Lilian Harvey, Willy Fritsch, Paul Kemp, and Oskar Sima danced and sang:

_Ich wäre dämlich, aber froh _(I would be stupid but happy)

_Ich wäre dämlich, aber froh _(I would be stupid but happy)

_Ich wäre dämlich, aber froh _(I would be stupid but happy)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a little longer to get this one up. I've been looking forward to writing these scenes for a long time, and wanted to make sure I got it right. Thank you for your patience!!
> 
> If you'd like to watch the I Wish I Were a Chicken number, you can find it on youtube by searching "Glückskinder."
> 
> Just a few more chapters to go!! I have a nasty feeling I'm going to keep writing in this universe for awhile, and seeing as it's awfully lonely writing long-form fic without a greater fandom community, I made a tumblr. It's just velvet-waltz dot tumblr dot com. Right now I'm mostly using it to vent but I'll probably post longer historical/background notes there, too. For the folks who have mentioned writing your own Hans/Sylvia fic, you can submit it there if you'd like! 
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you for your comments, your kudos, your ongoing interest in this story. Your feedback and enthusiasm has meant the world to me.


	27. The Red Sea

“It’s getting late,” Hans murmured, as they swayed beneath the crystal chandelier to _Zauberland _for the fifth, maybe sixth time.

“I don’t care,” she mumbled, her head tucked beneath his chin.

“You’ll certainly care in the morning.”

Sylvia made the face she usually made when Hans was right.

He hummed along, his breath warm in her hair. The Valtonen sisters’ harmonies shimmered as always, but the townhouse had already begun to feel strange, as if the furniture itself knew.

“I wonder where we’ll sleep tomorrow, Hans.”

“Well, according to our Appalachian friend, there is an Allied camp near the Belgian border, approximately two hours’ drive from here. Seeing as it’s a camp, I expect we’ll be in a tent.”

“It’s our last night in a bed, then.”

“For now. But come tomorrow night, we’ll be safe in the arms of your dear Uncle Sam.”

“I can’t wait to be Sylvia again,” she sighed. “No more cover. No more hiding.”

“No,” Hans said, his voice wistful. “No more hiding, for you.”

Sylvia lifted her head. “What do you mean, ‘for you’?”

“After tomorrow, you will no longer need my protection. You must consider how different things will be, especially if we go to America. You’re young, and bright, and have so much life ahead of you. I will be a burden to you.”

“No, no, Hans, you could never be a burden to me,” she soothed.

“Everyone will know who I am and what I have done. They will call you a collaborator.” The lines around his eyes seemed deeper, pained. “I am a bad man, Sylvia. Do you really want to be held down by a wretched old man and his guilt?”

“Hans.” She swallowed. “I know you’ve done horrible things. Unforgivable things. And…you’re right, there’s no making up for it. But I love you. I’m not leaving France without you.”

His mouth quirked in a sad smile. “And I love you. But you have no obligation to me. You can leave me behind.”

“But you’re the one for me, Hans. I tried to fight it, god, I tried, but what’s the use? We belong together. You ain’t getting rid of me any time soon.”

He kissed her softly. “I don’t deserve you. I can never hope to deserve you.”

“Listen,” Sylvia said, meeting his eyes again. “I never really told you about him, but I was engaged before. It was a disaster.”

Hans tensed. He had been waiting for this.

“He cheated on me…with his students, multiple students. He taught at Northwestern.”

“Philosophy?”

“Worse. Russian Literature.”

Hans wrinkled his nose.

“It went on for ages,” Sylvia continued, her eyes glossing. “I was practically the last to find out. But I wasted years of my life trying to please him, trying so hard to be what he wanted. I was never enough.”

Hans pulled her close, holding her tightly to his own heart.

“He humiliated me. I’ve never felt so worthless.” The wound, though no longer fresh, still hurt to touch.

“Oh my angel, my angel,” Hans consoled. “Stay with me and I will dedicate every day and night to your happiness.”

Sylvia pulled back. “That’s a little intense. Maybe just 80% of your day, so you can still do the crossword puzzle.”

Hans smiled wryly. “And my nights?”

“Oh, those are all mine, mister.”

He grew serious again. “What I’ve done will never go away. Can you stomach that?”

“I know. But it’s not about what I can handle. You decide what happens next, Hans. You can sit in the corner and beat yourself up, or you can choose to do good. I know you’re capable of so much good, you’ve shown me that.”

His hands moved to cup her shining face, the sweet mouth, powerful nose, and perfect cheekbones, her eyes full of all the light in the universe. Looking at, and wanting, him. In that moment, he could’ve torn the sky down from heaven to wrap around her shoulders. He tenderly pressed his lips to each of her eyelids.

“Will you be my wife?” he whispered.

“Yes, dummy. It was ‘yes’ every other time you asked, too.”

Hans pouted a little. “I’m trying to properly propose to you.”

“Ask me again, maybe I’ll change my answer,” she teased.

“Oh, my dear girl.” He sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t have a ring.”

“You already gave me a ring!”

“But that’s ‘Ilse’s,” Hans said, watching her dart over to the little bowl on the vestibule table.

“Ilse’s got 24 hours to live,” Sylvia grinned, sliding the emerald back onto her finger.

\------------------------------------------------------------

As it turned out, Sgt. Donowitz was handy with more than a wooden bat or a machine gun.

Bunny and Sylvia, wrapped in their robes, gawked as he unrolled an assortment of hairdressing tools on Hans’ kitchen table.

“Three generations o’ Donowitz’s done hair. My Pops owns the oldest barber shop in the West End,” Donny explained, sharpening his scissors on a leather strop. “His Pops taught him, he taught me. You wanna look good in Boston, you come to Donowitz’s.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Bunny said, mesmerized by the scissor blades.

He washed, trimmed, and rolled Sylvia’s hair first, then dried, sculpted, and pinned her ringlets with deep concentration. She watched Bunny’s reactions shift from curiosity to genuine awe.

At last, he thrust a hand mirror in front of her. “Whaddya think?”

Sylvia let out a gasp. A deep side part, and artfully piled curls had created a chic and flattering style she could never have achieved herself. Donny Donowitz was full of surprises.

“Donny, how much would you want to do my hair for my wedding?”

“Aww, for you, kid? Free.”

“I won’t hear of it,” Sylvia continued, admiring his work. “We’ll pay you twice your normal rate plus travel expenses.”

“Or,” Donny countered, beginning to comb out Bunny’s red locks. “You could get married in Boston. Maybe even live there. Who needs New York when you got Boston!”

“You’re not going to believe this, but…Hans wants to buy a house on Nantucket.”

Donny laughed so hard and loud, Hans came down the stairs to see what the fuss was about.

\---------------------------------------------------------

“How do I look?” Alain struck a pose in his crisp waiter whites. “Would it be _too awful _if I dumped champagne on some Nazi’s uniform?”

“An awful waste of champagne.” Utivich finished buttoning his chauffeur’s jacket, and turned to him shakily. “I really don’t think I’m ready for this.”

“Hey, now, you parked _and _backed up yesterday. You were splendid.”

The young men fell into each other’s arms, the afternoon sun catching motes through the tiny basement window.

“My brave Smitty. Going back into battle after what happened last time.”

“I’m a Basterd. ‘A Basterd’s work is never done,’” Utivich chuckled. “Are you scared?”

“As hell.”

“Well, you know,” Utivich said, tucking his hands under Alain’s apron string. “Jews don’t believe in hell.”

“Aw, that’s too bad,” Alain smirked. “Where shall we send Hitler, then?”

“New Jersey.”

They kissed deeply, their skin flushing with the undiluted joy of contact, both all too aware this moment could be the last.

Alain gave Utivich’s hair an affectionate tousle. “Let’s go, little man.”

\----------------------------------------------------------

The black Mercedes juddered over the cobblestones of the Pont Neuf bridge as Hans, Sylvia, and Utivich made their way to the little cinema. The sun sparkled on the Seine, and beyond, all of Paris was awash in gold. It was going to be a spectacular sunset.

Sylvia broke the silence. “Let’s go over it. Utivich, you know where you’re taking the car?”

Utivich, across from Sylvia in the backseat, nodded. “Just around the block. Leaving it in the alley.”

“Stiglitz should be there by 7:30.”

“Yup. And Alain’s letting us in the back exit.”

“My Austrian relations should arrive about 15 minutes to curtain,” Hans added, nimbly taking the car around a hairpin medieval turn. “If they don’t miss it altogether waiting for ‘nineteen pm.’”

Sylvia shot him a look in the rearview mirror. “They’re military, Hans, they know 24-hour time.”

“I’m simply predicting future performance based on past results.” His eyes flicked to Utivich in the rearview. “No offense, Smithson.”

“None taken,” Utivich replied distractedly.

“Sylvia, should you need me urgently, come to Mademoiselle Mimieux’s office, under the stairs. She has graciously allowed me to set up camp there tonight.” Hans slowed the car, as traffic had begun to thicken. “The Führer will not enter until I alert his handlers that everyone else has been seated. After the picture begins, we lock the doors to the auditorium.”

“But not the back, so we can get out,” she added.

“Correct.”

A couple of blocks from the cinema, Hans turned onto a quiet side street, and stopped. The doors opened, and unseen by anyone, Hans Landa and Smithson Utivich switched seats.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

The little cinema was unrecognizable. Enormous swastika flags choked the air with red, hanging from every available surface and then some. A huge iron eagle had been mounted on the mezzanine balcony, smaller flags sticking out like a toreador’s lances in a bull.

_Olé, _thought Sylvia.

Hans’ personal gravitas was such that the entire room turned like a school of fish the moment he and Sylvia entered. They nodded graciously, the rising star of the Third Reich and his lily-white soon-to-be-bride, as they made their rounds, medals and champagne clinking.

Now and then he would squeeze her arm, and the princess of the Paris occupation, striking in floor-length green silk, would shoot him a secret smirk, before offering her hand to another fawning officer.

“They’re here,” he whispered at last, and she turned to see Aldo, Wicki, Donny, and Omar walk stiffly up the red carpet in their freshly fitted tuxedoes.

“Ah! My favorite nephews! Wilhelm, Ernst, Günter, Karl!” Hans bellowed a little too loudly, embracing each of the Basterds in turn. “How do you find Paris, boys?”

“_Eins,_” said Donny, unblinking.

“Yes, it is certainly number one in my estimation, too.” Hans turned to Sylvia. “I must attend to my duties. You know where to find me.” He kissed her cheek, and then he was gone.

Without her Standartenführer at her side, the danger suddenly registered. She stood awkwardly with the Basterds and their wax dummy smiles.

“Ilse, you look gorgeous,” Wicki commended in German.

“Thank you.” Her heart pounded so furiously she could barely focus. “I trust you all have your tickets.”

Omar nodded. “Yah.”

“Good, good. And you, Wilhelm?”

“Yah,” said Aldo, pained. “Donk-ay.”

“_Danke,” _she softly corrected.

Aldo squinted. “Donkey.”

“Oh god,” Sylvia muttered, and drained her champagne.

“Ilse? Is that you??” someone squealed behind her. It was Bunny, laying it on thick as Hannelore. “Who are these handsome devils?”

Sylvia took her hand. “Hans’ nephews from Austria. Why don’t you ask them their names and ages?”

While Bunny watched the boys stumble through the minefield of German consonants, Sylvia scanned the room. She spotted Hans crossing the mezzanine balcony, heading towards the left box entrance. Many SS she had probably met but forgotten the names of, a few German – and French – film stars she recognized. Oh, there was Emil Jannings, schmoozing with Goebbels and Francesca. Yikes.

And there, in a form-fitting red gown, Emmanuelle, the cinema’s owner. She leaned against the railing, staring out over the festivities with a look of utter contempt. Sylvia caught her eye, and waved.

Emmanuelle looked at her curiously, then turned and walked back toward the projection booth.

A tray of champagne flutes appeared in Sylvia’s peripheral vision. She absentmindedly grabbed one, then realized who held the tray.

“Darling,” Alain whispered. “Over there. 2 o’clock.”

“Huh?” Her eyes landed on a head of close-cropped blonde curls. _Philippe. _Alongside a very handsome lance corporal.

“Oh my god,” Sylvia breathed. “I’m so sorry.”

“He can’t see me or Bunny, so off I go,” Alain hissed, and disappeared into the crowd, tray aloft.

So that’s what happened to Philippe. Almost certainly snitched on all of them. And by the look of his tuxedo, well paid for it. But if Philippe was there….what were the chances….no. Edward wasn’t important enough. The smaller venue meant an exclusive guest list. Still, her stomach lurched at the thought.

But it didn’t hold a candle to what her insides did when she glanced back at the Basterds and saw Mitzi.

“Don’t play with me, big boy,” Mitzi rasped, all over Donny like a creeping vine. “I’m just tryin’ to ask you a little question.”

“_Gesundheit,” _Donny said.

“Mitzi! How lovely to see you,” Sylvia lied.

“Oh. It’s you. Mrs. Landa,” Mitzi scowled. “Your nephew-in-law is being very rude.”

“He’s just shy.” Sylvia delicately tried to peel Mitzi’s hands from Donny’s neck. She howled in response.

“You’ve already got a man, Ilse! This one’s mine!”

Aldo, Wicki, and Omar had gone as pale as Aldo’s white tuxedo.

“But he’s…he’s dating Hannelore Kircher,” Sylvia bluffed, anxiously looking around for Bunny, and catching her at the foot of the stairs. “Hannelore! Come over here!”

Bunny’s eyes popped at the sight.

“This is Mitzi,” Sylvia nodded meaningfully. “She doesn’t know you’re Günter’s girl.”

“Yes. We’re going steady, very steady,” Bunny assented, touching Donny’s arm.

Mitzi ignored her, and began running her hands across Donny’s chest. “What a big, strong boy you are.”

Suddenly, she paused. “Is that a sten gun in your jacket or are you just happy to see me?”

The Basterds froze.

Bunny moved first. “Okay, Mitzi, I think you need a little drinky.” With one graceful motion, she hooked an arm around Mitzi’s waist and began dragging her through the sea of grey and black uniforms to the bar.

“I wanna drink of _him!!” _she protested, quickly drowned by the dull roar of party chatter.

“Perhaps we should take our seats,” Wicki commented to his dazed companions.

“Goo-ten tawg,” drawled Aldo.

Sylvia studied him for a moment, then excused herself.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

She closed the door of the office behind her. “He has a lynching scar.”

Hans looked up from the desk. “Yes, he does.”

“What kind of Austrian has a _lynching scar??_”

“It’s June, my dear girl, he can hardly wear a turtleneck.”

“But it stands out!! Everyone can see it!!”

He laid down his pen. “Sylvia, do you know what makes you an exemplary agent? You assume everyone around you is as bright as you are. I promise, those puffed-up piranhas know nothing of the geographic implications of that scar.”

Sylvia approached the desk. “You don’t think it’s a problem?”

“Even if they suspected, they won’t risk offending him, and myself, by asking about it. They may talk amongst themselves, and that’s it.”

“Okay.” Sylvia steadied herself. “Well, you know who _is _a problem? Mitzi Schubert.”

That got Hans’ attention. “What did she say to you?”

“Not to me! She got one look at Donny and practically climbed in his tux with him. Bunny had to haul her to the bar and pour gin down her throat.”

Hans chuckled. “Sounds like Mitzi. Is Wicki handling the situation?”

“Sure, as well as he can. You know what a jolly, outgoing fellow he is.”

“So my relations are a little odd. Get them in their seats and it won’t matter.”

Sylvia leaned over the desk. “What are you doing?”

“Just some last minute paperwork. I’ll be down shortly. Herr Majesty is en route, apparently.”

“Where should I wait for you?”

“Near the stairs. Stay in the lobby, don’t take your seat,” he instructed, neatly creasing the paperwork. “If the ushers insist, tell them you’re waiting for me, they won’t question it.”

She watched him tuck the paper into his pocket, and quickly smooth his hair in the little desk mirror.

“I still can’t believe you’re really doing this,” she said, admiring her handsome saboteur.

“You asked me to walk away from the Reich, did you not?” he replied innocently, eyes twinkling.

\------------------------------------------------

Sylvia found the crowd had thinned considerably when she emerged. The Basterds were nowhere to be seen, and the warning chimes had begun.

She caught Bunny coming out of the powder room. “I just spoke with Hans. You-know-who’s on his way.”

“He’d better be,” Bunny said with a wink. “He and I got a date.”

“Where are you headed now?”

“I’m keeping an eye on Zoller.” Bunny glanced up at the balcony. “He won’t get off Mimieux’s ass.”

Sylvia followed her eyeline. “You think we need to worry about him?”

“Eh,” Bunny shrugged. “She’s already in the booth. If he’s waiting for her he’s gonna miss his own movie.”

Zoller, sweating hard in his dress whites, swirled the dregs of his drink with irritation.

“I’ve gotta wait for Hans,” Sylvia whispered. “You remember where the back door is, right? Come out there after and we’ll grab you in the car. Make sure Emmanuelle makes it out, too.”

Bunny gave her an odd look, then smiled. “Okay, honey. I’ll do my best.”

At that moment, Zoller left the balcony and re-entered the center box. Twirling her handbag, Bunny headed up the stairs after him.

The chimes rang out again, more insistently. The lobby was really empty now. Sylvia leaned against the staircase, and focused on her breathing. _In. Out. In. Out. In._

“Fraulein, you must take your seat now,” an usher commanded, pressing a program into her hand.

“Oh, I’m waiting for my fiancée, Standartenführer Landa. I don’t want to sit without him.” It didn’t sound nearly as convincing coming out of her own mouth.

“He’ll sit with you after the Führer is seated,” the usher insisted, and taking her by the arm, forcefully brought her to the auditorium door. What could she possibly do without causing a scene?

Tentatively, Sylvia stepped into the theater. She spotted their seats, a middle row, on the aisle. Thank god Hans thought about these things. Wobbling slightly in her heels, she tottered down to row J and sat.

“STOLZ DER NATION” announced the title card, in that florid Old German font the Nazis were so fond of.

Sylvia searched the auditorium until she spotted Donny and Omar, a few rows behind her, in the dead middle. There was an empty seat next to Omar.

“_Where’s Aldo?” _she mouthed, once she caught Donny’s eye.

“_What?” _he mouthed back.

_“WHERE IS ALDO??”_

Donny and Omar each mouthed animatedly back at her, but she couldn’t decipher it. She stood and beckoned to them from the aisle.

With some difficulty, the two Basterds ‘entschuldigung’ed and sideways-shuffled past a full row of old guard Nazis, and followed her into the lobby.

“Aldo’s takin’ a tinkle,” Donny explained. “He’s been gone awhile.”

“Shit, he has,” Omar said, wide-eyed.

“How long has he been gone?” Sylvia asked, alarmed.

They all looked up at the sound of a door opening. It was Hans, departing the center box. Surely informing Goebbels of Hitler’s arrival. He disappeared back into the dark hallway.

“Hans should be down soon,” Sylvia whispered, now that the lobby was truly empty. “We’ll pick you guys up in the side alley, just come out the back door after –“

She froze. The same usher who had reprimanded her before stood uncomfortably close. “Fraulein and company, you _must _take your seats before the Führer arrives.”

“Sir, my fiancée is the head of security in Paris, and he will be down for me shortly.” She shot him her most imperious glare, and without a word, he slunk back into the theater, followed by Donny and Omar.

“See ya on the other side,” Donny muttered, before ducking back into the house.

One by one, the doors to each aisle closed, and she was alone.

Voices outside, and the closing of car doors. He had arrived. Now was her chance to look the monster in the eye, at close range. Did she dare?

The blood rushed in her ears. Where the hell was Hans? What did he go back to the office for? What was taking so long? The voices were now close enough to be intelligible, footsteps coming, and Sylvia decided the answer was no, she did not wish to see or be seen by Adolf Hitler, not tonight or ever. She stepped into the ladies’ restroom, and braced herself against the sink. Deep breaths. _In, out, in, out. _She closed her eyes. _In, out, in._

The hood was over her head and a hand over her mouth so quickly she had no time to fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually love Russian literature. If Velvet Waltz owes any debt to a dead author, it's to Dostoevsky.
> 
> You can listen to Zauberland here: youtube dot com/watch?v=rOk1LfCS81k
> 
> Only one more chapter and an epilogue to go. I am personally distraught that VW is almost done, having sunk the past 6 months of my life into this story and these characters. I'm busy so I don't want to make any promises, but I'll find a way to keep writing them, here and there. 
> 
> Also, I promise I'll post the last chapter and the epilogue together. I'm not THAT cruel.
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you, for reading, for commenting, for finding me on tumblr (velvet-waltz), for your theories, your enthusiasm, and for loving this story and these characters as much as I do. Someone on tumblr suggested "Hanvia" as the pairing name for Hans/Sylvia. I've never posted fanfic before, and I never thought someone would create a *pairing name* for an original character of mine, so I am gobsmacked. You guys are the best, you really are.
> 
> Okay, then. The grand finale, coming soon. Brace yourselves!


	28. Surrender

“Right over there.”

It was the first intelligible voice she’d heard since they’d covered her head with that suffocating black hood, pinned her to the bathroom floor, bound her wrists with rope, thrown her into a van to who knows where. Now those same rough hands pushed her into a seated position, and pulled off the hood.

Blinding lights. Sylvia recoiled. What was this, an interrogation?

“There she is.”

_Edward._

“Here I am,” she grumbled.

When she forced her eyes open, there was Hans. Also bound, squinting in the glare. From the state of his hair he’d had the same treatment.

Their eyes met, hers fearful, his tired.

If this was the end, at least they were together.

A throat clearing to her right.

“Oh, yes, sorry. Two-hundred each, was it?” Edward walked to the door, dragging one leg slightly as he clipped the edge of the light. He counted out bills into the waiting soldiers’ hands. With a gruff nod, they departed…upstairs. So they were in a basement.

“Enjoy the film,” Edward called out after them.

_Oh yeah, _Sylvia thought with a smirk._ Enjoy the film._

Her eyes began to adjust. Was that looming shadow just beyond the lights a movie camera? Along the back wall, watching with palpable horror, were Aldo, identifiable by his white tuxedo, as well as Alain, and Utivich. Several feet away, their guns and daggers lay haphazardly on a card table.

“What are you doing, Edward?” Her voice sounded much smaller than she would’ve liked.

“We’re making our own little movie. Isn’t that every American girl’s dream? To be a movie star?”

She was rapidly coming to a boil. If she were going to die overseas, it would _at least _be at the hands of a real Nazi, not some brown-nosing British traitor.

“Careful,” Hans whispered. “Don’t push him.”

“Quiet!” Edward snapped, and with a lurch, the camera whirred to life. “We’re rolling. Now, state your name and rank.”

“Standartenführer Hans Landa, SS. Sicherheitsdienst, to be exact.”

How he managed such dignity under the circumstances was beyond her.

“Austrian?”

“Correct.”

Edward gestured to his right. “Herr Becker, can you step forward, please?”

Sylvia nearly fell off her chair as the gawky young soldier shuffled into the light. He looked back at her, grinning.

His leering eyes in the rearview that day. _Transporting a prisoner? You chose a pretty one._

It took every ounce of self-control not to spit on him.

“Name and rank?”

“Private Rolf Becker.”

“What happened on February 28th, Private?”

“Well, I had some paperwork to deliver to 84 Avenue Foch, and I happened to encounter Standartenführer Landa,” Rolf bleated, enjoying the attention. “I mentioned it was nearly an hour until my train, you see, my family lives outside of the city. He very graciously offered me a ride.”

“After twisting my arm until it nearly snapped,” Hans muttered.

“He was transporting a prisoner in the back seat. I mentioned she was pretty. He didn’t seem to like that comment. She was, though. You can see for yourself, she’s right here!” Rolf pointed at Sylvia, reminding her of a salesman. “She cleans up well, I think!”

Edward seemed pleased. “You may return to your seat, Herr Becker.”

Rolf gave a little half bow to the camera, then awkwardly sidestepped into the shadows.

So Edward had a witness. How did he even dig up that little shit? The back of her gown dampened with sweat.

Hans’ piercing hazel eyes were waiting for her when she glanced at him.

_I hope you have a plan, _she telegraphed. _Because I’m fucking terrified._

His said only: _Trust me._

“Landa.” Edward’s voice snapped them back to attention. “So who is she, then?”

“Oh, she’s a prisoner, of course,” Hans asserted.

Sylvia felt her stomach turn to lead and drop through the floor to the very center of the earth.

“Or was, rather. And before that, funnily enough, I found her half-buried in the rubble of a bombed-out café. Apparently, her commanding officer directed her fellow agents to leave her behind.” Hans cocked his head bemusedly. “That’s rather a stain on the honor of the Special Operations Executive, abandoning one of its own in enemy territory, wouldn’t you agree?”

She would’ve given her right arm to clearly see Edward’s face right then.

“So you admit, she’s an enemy of the state, and you’ve been passing her off as your fiancée?”

“Oh, she is both an enemy of the state, _and _my fiancée,” Hans beamed.

A whoop from the back, almost certainly Alain.

“Quiet!” Edward yelled. He seemed to be fraying. “You’re next, agent.”

He held something small in front of the lens. “You know what this is? It’s a photograph we found in Landa’s wallet. Looks like your recruitment photo. Real cute.”

Sylvia turned to Hans. Had he really carried that little picture in his wallet all this time? He faced ahead, impossibly calm.

“State your name, then, agent. And don’t try anything, we all know who you are,” Edward snickered.

She straightened herself, took a deep breath, and looked right into the camera.

_If I never leave this room alive, let this footage be my testimony._

“Sylvia Leventhal, SOE. American.”

“And?”

The film continued to whirr. “I’m sorry?”

“You know.”

Her throat suddenly felt dry. “Jewish.”

“But you’re a _mischling_, right?” he sneered.

It was an ugly word. A word only Nazis used. “You know I’m mixed, Edward. My father is Jewish. My mother is Catholic.”

Edward let out a derisive cackle. “Just look at you two together. The Nazi and the half-Jew. Christ. What a pair.”

Sylvia glared with every ounce of hatred she could muster. “Are you done yet?”

“Not yet,” Hans chimed in. “There’s tonight, and the matter of my treason, isn’t there? You couldn’t possibly leave out the grand finale, Edward.”

That cackle again. “Oh, you really want to confess, huh?”

“Desperately.” Hans’ eyes glittered.

“Well, go ahead, then. Camera’s rolling.”

“I, Standartenführer Hans Landa, used, or rather, abused my position as head of security to grant seven fully armed American soldiers entry to the world premiere of _Stolz der Nation_, with the intent of causing violence, havoc, and if all goes as planned, i.e. the assassination of Der Führer and his three closest associates, the swift collapse of the Third Reich.”

Sylvia’s jaw dropped. What game was he playing? She’d never seen him so self-satisfied.

Rolf Becker’s face was as white as the wall behind him.

Faint sputtering as Edward’s mouth remembered how to make words. “That’s…you just confessed to high treason!”

“Yes.”

“So…there are still soldiers in there…armed soldiers?? You mean…I’m calling this in! I’m stopping it!”

“Yes, Edward, go on, be the next Zoller. I’m sure you will be well rewarded,” Hans said dryly.

“Just one thing,” came a familiar drawl. “You can call the Gestapo, and they can try draggin’ my men out. But every one of ‘em’s got dynamite strapped to their leg, set to blow at 8:45. You’ll never get ‘em without settin’ off them bombs.”

Sylvia couldn’t repress a smile. It was a damn good bluff, and Edward ate it up.

“That’s 20:45,” Hans helpfully translated.

“Seventeen minutes!” Rolf squeaked.

Edward leaped off his stool. “Herr Becker, run and –“

“Private Becker, you will do nothing of the sort!” Hans shouted so loudly Sylvia jumped.

Becker glanced between Edward and Hans, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

The sound of a pistol cocked. All heads snapped to Edward, now easing into the light, aiming his Walther at Hans. “Private Becker, ignore the traitor and sit down.”

“That’s rich,” snorted Sylvia. The Walther now swung to her.

_BANG! _She tensed, waiting for the aftershock of pain. Instead, Edward hit the ground with a yelp.

Gasping, Sylvia squinted. Just on the edge of the lights…Utivich. Holding a pistol.

“You bloody piss ant.” Edward writhed on the carpet. “That was my good leg.”

“Sorry, I was aiming for your head,” said Utivich. “Hand’s still numb. From the ropes.”

Just then, in her peripheral vision, Sylvia saw Edward lift the Walther. On pure animal instinct she threw her weight forward, knocking Edward down hard.

“Get off me, you Jew bitch!” he roared.

Utivich rushed to take the pistol from Edward’s hand.

“Private Becker!!” Hans thundered in a tone Sylvia had never heard before.

Every head snapped to the German private, now aiming his own pistol at Hans.

“Unless you wish to be filmed disobeying the orders of a superior officer, drop that gun at once!” Hans was, frankly, terrifying.

Rolf’s hand shook pathetically. The pistol clattered to the floor.

“Very good. Now, untie me.”

The young soldier hesitated.

“NOW!”

In a half a second he was by the chair, working on Hans’ ropes. He was free in less than a minute.

“Now, private, you will take a seat and remain seated until you are told to move. Is that clear?” Hans commanded.

Rolf quickly obeyed, with Utivich guarding him, for good measure.

Then Hans was kneeling on the rug freeing Sylvia. She let out a moan of relief as her hands fell on either side of Edward.

“You disgust me,” he hissed into the carpet. “Pigs, the lot of you.”

Hans helped Sylvia to her feet. “You’ll find my dagger on that table.” She nodded.

Edward made a pitiful sound.

“Oh, get a hold of yourself,” Hans clucked. Stooping, he took a handful of Edward’s shirt and hauled him upright.

“Now, Edward, I understand you’re Britain’s very best radio man in France.”

Edward’s glare of contempt could have melted steel.

“Oh yes, you are, don’t be modest. It doesn’t suit you. I couldn’t help but notice a very sophisticated two-way radio set over there, which I’m sure you are more than capable of operating,” Hans said, dragging the bloodied Brit to the back of the room. “Let’s give your commander in London a call.”

Pressing the muzzle of a pistol into his spine doubled Edward’s dialing speed.

Sylvia sawed at the ropes binding Aldo’s hands until they snapped, and fell away. “That was a hell of a bluff, about the bombs. He ate it right up.”

Aldo shook out his wrists. “Yeah, Sylvia. Hell of a bluff.”

“He bought it, that’s what matters.” She set to work on Alain’s ropes, just as Hans began to address the SOE command center in London.

“Yes, this is Standartenführer Hans Landa, SS. You may consider these ‘the terms of my conditional surrender.”

“How’d Utivich get free?” she asked, positioning the blade between Alain’s wrists.

“Edward made the mistake of setting us next to each other. You may recall how I excelled at knots in training,” Alain bragged, as the rope weakened, then gave way.

“Oh, I intend to surrender myself at once. Tonight. I’ve just been a little tied up.” Hans winked at Sylvia, who rolled her eyes at Alain.

“You’re the one marrying that cornball.” Alain smiled, rubbing the feeling back into his hands. “Congratulations. How the hell are you going to tell your family?”

“Let’s get through the night first. We’re heading straight to our lines after this. Hopefully they believe him.”

Alain jerked a thumb toward the camera, still rolling on the petrified figure of Rolf. “They will.”

“As an architect of Operation Kino from the very beginning, I would like my full military pension and benefits, under my proper rank, for my invaluable assistance in toppling the Third Reich,” Hans continued. “As well as….actually, I want all the members of Operation Kino to receive the Congressional Medal of Honor.” He gave his collaborators a congenial nod. “Full citizenship for myself, that goes without saying. Also, a housing allowance appropriate for a married couple in New York City, and in addition, I would like the US government to purchase property for us on Nantucket Island. I don’t believe that is too much to ask, considering the countless lives I have saved by bringing the National Socialist party to a swifter than imagined end. Do you have all that down?”

“Holy shit,” Utivich gaped.

“That’s my fiancée,” Sylvia bragged.

“Very good. If you could pass that along to OSS? Although we will happily accept decorations of the British Empire in addition. Excellent. I look forward to meeting you face to face, as well, sir. Until then.”

As soon as Hans ended his call, he directed Edward to turn off the camera and remove the film reel. He tucked the canister into his jacket, and watched with pride as Sylvia tied Edward to the chair, prudently triple knotting, as she had been trained.

“Scalp ‘im, maybe?” Utivich wondered aloud. “I’d say he counts.”

“If he walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, and lays big ol’ ducks eggs like a duck,” Aldo quipped, holding his rather impressive knife to Edward’s terrified face. “He don’t need no uniform.”

Rolf meekly raised his hand.

“You’re still here,” Hans sighed. “Oh, run along, Private.”

“Thank you, Standartenführer.” He walked shakily to the door, then ran.

Stepping into the brisk night air, Sylvia and Hans found themselves mere blocks from the little cinema. Operation Kino was almost certainly still a go, Edward’s plan had backfired spectacularly, and Hans had ensured them a comfortable future in the states. A full moon glowed benevolently just over the skyline.

“We must find the car and leave immediately.” Hans checked his watch. “Our knock-kneed little Private will inform the proper authorities.”

“Wouldn’t the proper authority…be you?” Sylvia pointed out.

“Indeed. The resulting delay may buy us time, but once they get wind of what happened at the cinema, they’ll seal the city at once. My love, when the checkpoints go up, our proverbial pooch is screwed.”

Sylvia took a breath. “Right.”

The two Basterds, with Alain, emerged from the basement, chuckling.

“You know somethin’, Utivich?” Aldo re-sheathed his knife. “That just might be my masterpiece.”

“Gentlemen.” Hans received them warmly. “Our collaboration has been a great pleasure. Not to cut our goodbyes short, but I’m about to be the most wanted man in several countries. Aldo, position of your lines?”

“About that,” Aldo said gruffly. “The camp I had in mind moved this morning. Nearest lines are gonna be a long way east, too far. But I can do ya one better.” He pulled a deeply creased map from his pocket, and thumped a spot in the upper left corner. “Head northwest to the coast, there’s an RAF plane droppin’ men and supplies ahead o’ the big invasion. Should land just before dawn. Come out with your hands up, maybe wave a white hankie, I reckon you can be in London by daylight.”

“Are you coming with us?” Sylvia asked.

Alain pulled Utivich close. “We’re staying for the liberation.”

“And I’ve gotta stay with my men.” Aldo seemed to be ruminating something.

She turned to Hans. “We have room in the car. Let’s go see who wants to leave tonight.”

A loaded pause.

Aldo laid a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Sylvia, it wasn’t a bluff. About the bombs.”

She felt as if he had punched her in the windpipe. “What?”

“Everyone had a bomb on their leg tonight,” Utivich said apologetically. “We kicked ours off in the van when they grabbed us.”

Hans was suddenly livid. “Bombs were not part of the plan! We never discussed bombs!”

“But Bunny’s in there!” Sylvia almost shrieked.

Alain couldn’t bring himself to look at her. “Bunny has one, too.”

She began to run. She heard the voices of her comrades behind her but didn’t slow until the bright marquee of the cinema loomed into view, still boasting the _Welt Premiere: Stolz der Nation._

No one was outside. No Bunny, no Donny, no Hirschberg, no Wicki, no Omar, no Stiglitz, and no Emmanuelle.

She dashed around to the back. No one was waiting there, either.

She squeezed past Hans’ car in the alley, where Utivich had parked it, and pressed her face to the front door glass. The lobby was deserted. There were crowbars crammed in both auditorium doors.

Operation Kino had never involved crowbars. That was someone else’s doing.

“Sylvia,” Hans was calling behind her. “Angel, we have to leave. Detonation in three minutes.”

She heard muffled gunfire, screams. Staggering backward into the street, the night now shimmered with a sort of unreality, as if they were now, in fact, in a movie.

“We can’t leave them!” she said, only slightly aware that she was sobbing. “They’re still in there, Hans! We can’t…”

“My dear girl, they’re not coming out.” He took her hand, and squeezed it gently. “They made a choice. We must respect that choice.”

She turned back to the cinema, unable to speak, unable to direct her own muscles to act. And to do what, exactly?

“Sylvia,” he asked. “Would you like to die with your friends?”

The empty lobby. The broad, glassy façade. The bright marquee. The morse code of machine gun fire, now plainly audible from outside. Her heart kicking in every direction at once like a panicked rabbit.

And Hans, waiting for her answer. One look and she knew he would respect her choice, too.

“No,” she finally said. She gave the cinema one last glance. “Let’s go.”

The Mercedes was peeling around one of those obnoxious Parisian turns when it happened.

The night lit up behind them, the blast reverberating from every surface, rending the Occupation silence once and for all, and ripping a feral wail from Sylvia’s chest as she crumpled in the passenger seat.

There was no time to dwell. They had minutes before the Gestapo would begin blocking roads. Hans reached for her, stroked her shaking back, but quickly returned his hand to the wheel. 

They blew through traffic lights.

Wheeled around roundabouts.

Engine gunning.

Tires squealing. 

Nearly t-boned another car. After dark, it was probably Gestapo. Not good.

They didn’t seem to follow him, but he began to check his mirrors constantly.

Then they both heard it. A siren.

Hard swerve onto the highway.

Engine whine, pushed to its limits.

The city blurred. Hans’ face was a mask of concentration. 

Sylvia closed her eyes, silently praying to the God she only vaguely believed in.

An off-ramp, clipping the curb as they turned onto a two-lane suburban road. She realized she had been gripping the door. 

Sylvia watched the elegant Paris rooftops gradually give way to houses, then cottages with steeply sloped roofs, and finally, long stretches of open countryside.

They had made it out of Paris. They needed another two hours of consistent luck to reach the coast.

Sylvia turned to Hans, her face raw from tears.

“Yes, angel?”

“I just…want to look at you.”

He smiled. “Are you proud of what we’ve done? You’re a part of history now.”

“We ended the war, didn’t we,” she said, the words tasting strange in her mouth.

“Not in one swoop, but we delivered the fatal blow. The Reich won’t roll over and submit just yet. Nothing fights more viciously than a wounded animal. But the Allied invasion will finish what we started.”

She finally relaxed against the seat. The long country road unspooled before them, an endless hypnotic ribbon of silver. 

As they approached the coast, cloud cover hid the moon.

Eventually, he handed Aldo’s map and his flashlight to Sylvia. “Navigate for me. The turn is soon.”

They departed the highway, turning onto a country road that soon narrowed to a single lane with only a few cottages. 

“Here,” Sylvia directed, and the Mercedes turned off of the road completely, rolling through tall weeds to stop at the edge of a wood. “It’s on the other side.”

“Then we go on foot.” Hans opened the trunk to grab their things. Everything she had packed the night before seemed silly now. What had she known about anything last night?

His arm steady at her waist, they descended the ridge into the forest, carefully picking their way in the darkness, feeling for obstacles with outstretched hands. Sylvia wished she had brought some sensible shoes, as she very nearly rolled her ankle more than once on the rough terrain. It was far too risky to use the flashlight.

At last, the trees began to thin. As they continued to the edge of the wood, Sylvia sniffed the air. “Hans! The ocean! I smell it!”

It was impossible to tell if the inky black expanse before her was earth, sea, or otherwise.

“We’re still some distance inland, but yes.” Hans stopped her. “Let’s wait here.”

“How long do we have?” she asked, easing herself to the ground.

“Approximately three hours.”

She pulled the heels off of her throbbing feet. “Oh god, what’ll we do for three hours?”

Hans unfolded something. The grey wool blanket.

A strange nostalgia stirred her. “Our picnic.”

“Yes, I’m afraid I didn’t pack any bread or cheese tonight,” Hans chuckled as he spread it on the grass.

Too tired to stand, she scooted onto the blanket, and reclined. “You know, that day, when I saw you put this blanket down, I was sure you were going to ravage me.”

Joining her, Hans laughed. “Oh, my dear girl, it wasn’t far from my mind.”

“So that’s how we can pass the time, I suppose,” she teased, raising her gown to her waist.

Hans removed his jacket, carefully nestling the film canister inside. Then he lowered himself onto her, meeting her lips with ferocious desire. “Three hours is hardly enough.”

Frenzied hands tugging at clothes, unzipping, unhooking, craving contact. Hans rolled his hips hard against hers, his fingers and mouth finding all of her most sensitive places, a constellation only he knew.

Their bodies thrummed with adrenaline, and in the balmy dark, the sweet-smelling grass, and the ocean breeze that raised goosebumps on their bare skin, there was only each other. Their lovemaking was both urgent and luxurious, rushing like the sea to fill one another, to touch, taste, and know, urging each other on to shuddering ecstasy.

An affirmation on the brink of a new world, as another world burned behind them.

\----------------------------------------------------

When they finally lay back on the blanket, the clouds had scrubbed the sky clean, and the full moon hung like a lantern over the treetops. Sylvia sprawled out comfortably, her nude body splendid in the moonlight, her lips swollen from kisses. Her eyes closed for several minutes.

“Hans,” she murmured. “I don’t think I can stay awake.”

“Sleep. I’ll keep watch.” He draped the edge of the blanket over her, then sat up to wait.

His dress uniform lay on the grass, the last vestige of his former life. Every shred of his power, all of his achievements, the life he had painstakingly built for himself over the course of a decade had gone up in flames with the cinema. He was surprised to feel nothing but relief.

And now, an open field rippled before him, and beyond it, a new life, with her. Not without its challenges, but he had ensured they would at least be comfortable. Financially, anyway.

Undoubtedly, his past would follow him to America. There would be tribunals, witness accounts, plenty of documentation of what had happened. Endless books would be written about the Reich. No matter how deeply you buried it, the truth always found its way to the surface. He might as well lay it out in the open: _I was the Jew Hunter. Now I’m marrying one._

Perhaps God had found a way to stop him, after all.

Every night when he drifted to sleep, the horrors awaited him, and always would. His consolation? When he woke from the hell of his own making, she would be there. For as long as she could stand him, anyway. It was far more than he deserved.

Somewhere, further along the coast, the bombings had begun. But here, there was only the whisper of trees, and a single, valiant cricket.

Hans found himself wishing this limbo could last forever.

But sure enough, as twilight muted the moon’s glow, the faint drone of an engine turned his eyes skyward. It was a British bomber, cleverly painted black for night flight. As it drew nearer he could make out twin propellers on its wings.

“Wake up, angel.” He gathered her underthings from the grass. “Get dressed.”

The bomber landed much further away than they had hoped. They would have to hurry. Carrying her heels in one hand and the hem of her evening gown in the other, a barefoot, disheveled Sylvia ran arm-in-arm with Hans across the field.

As soon as they were near enough to be seen, they slowed to a walk, and raised their hands high above their heads. The pilot lowered his gun as they approached.

“I am Standartenführer Hans Landa,” he called out. “I surrender myself to you.”

The crew scrambled out of the fuselage for a closer look, gawking as the pilot, Captain Nigel Mallory, dutifully collected Hans’ weapons.

“May I just say, sir,” Mallory added, a bit breathlessly. “What a great honor it is to deliver you and your…”

“Fiancee,” Sylvia spoke up. She probably looked like she’d been dragged behind a truck at this point, but she was well beyond caring.

“Your fiancée, my apologies. It is my _tremendous _honor to deliver you to London, Mr. Landa. Welcome aboard.”

Puzzled but too exhausted to ask questions, they climbed into the sparse metal hull of the craft, sitting on a cot another crewman laid out for them behind the pilots’ seats.

“Do we need oxygen masks?” Sylvia asked, watching Mallory plug in his beneath the cockpit instrument panel.

“Nah, we won’t be flying too high. Captain just needs his microphone, is all. Just a hop, skip and a jump to London.”

The soldier lingered for a moment.

“Mr. Landa…” He sheepishly held out a pen and notebook. “If you don’t mind…could you just…could I get your autograph? Make it out ‘to Ellen,’ please.”

Landa blinked. “Certainly.”

He scrawled his name across a page. _To Ellen: Hans Landa._

“Oh, thank you,” gushed the soldier. “She’d never believe I met the man who killed Hitler!”

Hans and Sylvia exchanged confused looks, but the plane began to move again, rapidly picking up speed as it swiveled back towards England, and lifted off with a jolt.

They could hear nothing over the roar of the engine, but another soldier was waving them towards the back of the plane. Crouching, they followed him.

He was beckoning them to the rear gunner’s station in the tail, with its domed glass. There, just as dawn spilled across the ocean, Hans and Sylvia watched the jagged French coastline recede, and the vast armada of Allied boats fill the water from horizon to horizon, crossing the channel to Normandy.


	29. Epilogue: Perfect From Now On

Late August, 1955

Hans could see her from the kitchen window. She was barefoot, in her usual spot on the sand, notebook on her lap, gazing out to sea.

Sylvia had been lukewarm about the Nantucket property when they first arrived in the states, skeptical of what the US government had picked out for them. After wordlessly touring the house, she had stepped out the back door, taken in the view of the open ocean, and sank to her knees. “I dreamed this, Hans! This view!” she gushed to him. “I dreamed this and it’s right here!”

She had that same blissful expression now. It did his heart good to see her so serene.

It had been a whirlwind week for their little family, having just dropped Mirjam off for her freshman year of college in the Berkshires. She had grown into a fierce young woman, as brilliant as Hans, and as passionate about justice as Sylvia. She was so self-possessed, it was difficult to believe she had entered their lives as a deeply traumatized, nearly mute war orphan.

She had horrific nightmares of the bombings, the violence, the carnage. So many nights Hans had sat at her bedside, holding her, singing to her, until she felt safe. “Go back to sleep,” he would say to Sylvia. “This is my responsibility.” “Don’t be ridiculous,” she always retorted. But Hans was sure she knew what he meant.

Ten years later, Hans had set the last box down in her dorm room at Smith College, pathetically stalling for time, asking inane questions about her roommates, campus security, transportation. “Relax, Dad,” Mirjam had said, rolling her dark eyes with irritation. “I’ve got this.”

It had been years since her last nightmare. But who would sit up with her if they came back?

From Smith, they had driven to the coast to take that familiar ferry to the island, where they could unwind a little. They were in no great hurry to return to New York. Perhaps they could detour to Boston and visit the Donowitzes, who always seemed glad to have company. Sylvia would want to visit the little Jewish cemetery in Back Bay and lay flowers on Donny’s marker. Hans always hung back, let her have her moment alone with ‘him,’ but he had to admit, he missed that brash young man, too.

They had stayed in touch with most of the Basterds’ families, in fact. They sent a holiday card every December to Aldo’s address in Tennessee, although they rarely got a response.

Hans glanced at the photo on the icebox door, pinned with a magnet shaped like a starfish: Hans, Sylvia, little Mirjam, and their good friends Alain and Smitty, all sunburnt and windblown on a pier. Alain and Smitty lived in New York as well, on the Upper East Side. Mirjam called both of them “uncle.”

He looked back at her, careful to use his peripheral vision. When your wife was one of the most decorated wartime spies in America, there was only so much you could get away with.

Today was the day. He was going to show her the letter.

Hans slipped out of the kitchen, down the little hallway to their bedroom, where the curtains billowed in the sea breeze. He unzipped his suitcase, and pulled the now battered letter out of the inner pocket.

It wasn’t that he wanted to hide anything from her. Heaven knew they made decisions as a team, and he deferred to her judgement more often than his own. But this was something else.

He had been tempted to burn it, independently investigate the author, write “no such person at this address” and return it, in hopes they wouldn’t try again. It was only after a few days’ rumination that he began to seriously consider its contents.

He returned to the dining room, packed his pipe with tobacco, and sat at the table to smoke. She’d be angry when she saw the postmark date, and he couldn’t blame her. She’d be angry reading the rest of it as well, but perhaps…

He’d have to wait and see what she thought.

At least here, in the Nantucket house, they weren’t inundated by it: the medals, awards, certificates, proclamations from mayors and governors and senators, the ribbon-cutting photo the day Hans Landa Park was dedicated, the scale model of the proposed statue of him for Morningside Park (that naturally, looked nothing like him.) Here, there were no fawning invitations to galas, no invitations to give keynote speeches, no interview requests, or worst of all, yet another bad script for an Operation Kino movie. It had been in production limbo so long, Hans quietly hoped it would never be made. It would be inaccurate, sanitized, unbearable. He imagined how badly Hollywood actors would mangle Donny and Aldo’s accents, not to mention his own.

Every honor, every schmoozing invitation, every invocation of him as a “hero” was torture. Before they’d even fled France, he had already been reborn in the eyes of the Allies. It wasn’t that they didn’t know of his monstrous past as the Jew Hunter; rather, they just didn’t care very much. They liked the hero narrative better.

He longed to burn his SS uniforms, to watch those hideous insignia burn to ash, but the Smithsonian Institution bought them first. His dress uniform, the one he’d worn that night, was now behind glass, next to Aldo’s white tuxedo, Donny’s bloodstained bat, and a glowing account of Operation Kino. The film of his and Sylvia’s “confession” was as iconic as D-Day or liberation footage. Ironically, Edward Scott, who would’ve been a footnote in history otherwise, had achieved immortality through that single reel of film. At least he would spend his mortal life in prison.

Surely the Nantucket locals knew, but kindly let them be. He was just a middle-aged Austrian intellectual and his wife, the essayist. On Nantucket, they could breathe. And now, with Mirjam at college, they could finally relax, maybe travel a bit.

Or…perhaps not.

She was coming in. Hans placed the letter on his lap just as the screen door banged shut. She wiped her sandy soles on the rug, entered the kitchen, and took the pitcher of iced tea out of the fridge.

“You and that pipe.” She poured herself a glass. “Tea?”

“You and that beach. No, thank you.”

She sat across from him.

Hans blew out a stream of smoke. “No, she didn’t call.”

“I’m sure she’s fine.”

“Yes, we raised an independent young woman.”

“We have to let her navigate things on her own.”

Ice cubes rattled as she took a long drink of her iced tea.

“If she doesn’t call by Saturday –,” Hans said.

“We’ll call her Friday,” Sylvia finished.

A beat.

“What is it, Hans.”

“Must it be something?”

“You only smoke like that when something’s on your mind.”

Hans gingerly placed the letter on the table. Sylvia grabbed it, and immediately narrowed her eyes at the postmark.

“I know, angel,” he sighed. “I’m sorry to keep it from you. When you read it, you’ll understand.”

Sylvia’s moss green eyes flashed a warning, then she began to read.

Hans knew the letter by heart now.

_Dear Mr. Landa,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I am Secretary Willard Preiss of the United States Department of State, reaching out to you on behalf of the Joint Operational Intelligence Objectives Agency._

“Why isn’t it on official letterhead?”

“Keep reading.”

_Your reputation as a detective precedes you, and your heroic actions in the final days of the war continue to inspire all freedom-loving citizens. It is for these reasons that we humbly request your help with a matter of extreme sensitivity._

Sylvia snorted.

_An individual who shares your past associations has entered this country, and successfully evaded our best investigators. We believe this individual to be a threat to national security. It is in the best interest of all Americans that this individual be captured immediately, and quietly. These circumstances will be explained to you in person, should you wish to know more._

_I understand you and your wife are facing an empty nest this autumn._

“Fucking vultures,” she scoffed.

_Perhaps, with your daughter at college, you may find this mission a welcome distraction. You may also consider this an opportunity to further compensate for your own past activities._

She paused at this, as Hans knew she would. She then read to the bottom. Her hand shook slightly as she laid the letter on the table.

Hans took a thoughtful puff on his pipe. “Verdict?”

“The nerve of these people,” she spat. “The fucking nerve!”

“I know, angel.”

“Honestly, who do they think they are?”

“I don’t know.”

“They didn’t even ask _me!” _she sputtered. “‘Mr. Landa’ this and that, and I’m just ‘your wife.’ Can you believe it??”

Hans held his pipe aloft for a moment, thinking. “Are you interested, then?”

“I’ll tell you this much, you aren’t going off to hunt rogue Nazis without me,” she snapped, slamming the iced tea down a little too hard. “I’m coming and I don’t care what they think about it. We’re a package deal, goddamnit.”

“It will be terribly dangerous.”

“Do you even know me?”

A smile slowly crept across Hans’ face. “I thought perhaps you’d like a little peace and quiet, with Mirjam away.”

“Hans,” Sylvia said, reaching for his hand. “There is nothing I’ve been dreading more than going home to all that peace and quiet.”

Their fingers interlaced on the table.

“I’ve never been much of a _hausfrau_, have I,” Sylvia chuckled.

“I can’t say I especially wanted one,” Hans said gently.

Sylvia took another long drink of her iced tea. “So it’s a yes, then.”

“We’ll respond tomorrow.”

“Let’s send a telegram. Tonight,” she said, with a decisive tap on the table.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She stood and planted a kiss on his temple. “Love you, Standartenführer.”

“I love you more. Shall we go out for dinner?”

“Ooh.” Sylvia draped her arms around his neck. “Seafood. That place by the pier.”

“Angelo’s.”

“I’d better change, then. My ass is covered with sand.”

Hans gave her behind an affectionate slap. “All better.”

“You’re always so frisky when we’re about to do something dangerous,” she laughed.

“As in, eating seafood on a Friday?”

“Courage, Standartenführer. I’ll hold your hair if you puke,” she purred.

“Ah, romance,” Hans said with a nip on her jaw, which became a deep kiss.

Sylvia nuzzled into his neck. “This is where Miri says, _Mom, Dad, stop it!_”

“You know...with Miri away…we aren’t limited to the bedroom,” Hans hummed. 

“Oh yeah, you could bend me over this table, just like old times,” Sylvia teased.

His hand gripped the back of her thigh. “Don’t tempt me, or we may be very late for dinner.”

Sylvia stood. “And here I am taking you out for oysters. It’s going to be a long night.”

“I’m counting on it.”

That devious smile, the one that shot electricity through him top to toe. “Be ready to go in five minutes.” Then, she headed to the bedroom to change.

The letter lay open on the table. He set his pipe down next to it.

He rubbed his temples and breathed deeply. There it always was, that old nausea, the roar of blood unsatisfied, the bottomless self-loathing, the heavy miasma of guilt that clung to him, close as a shadow.

A foolish young man once believed there was no star beyond his reach. An older man now knew there were entire firmaments he’d never even see.

_You may also consider this an opportunity to further compensate for your own past activities._

His pipe burned on, as fires tend to do, a tendril of smoke curling helplessly toward heaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading my story, for your enthusiasm, for embracing my original characters, for appreciating my interpretation of Hans Landa, for commenting and following the tumblr, for messaging me your theories, for "hating" me when I left you on a cliffhanger. This is my first piece of longform fiction prose, and the first time I've uploaded fanfic anywhere, and it's been such a wonderful experience, because of YOU.
> 
> Some notes:
> 
> The title, Velvet Waltz, comes from a Built to Spill song (as do the chapter titles Untrustable and Perfect from Now On, from the same album.) Besides being a very late-life-crisis-of-conscience song, I liked the idea of velvet as a treacherous fabric: one way it's soft, another way rough. The waltz, of course, is a cultural foundation of Hans' native Austria, and a neat metaphor for the rigid "dance" of life undercover.
> 
> I did a LOT of research for this story. Some major sources:
> 
> Avenue of Spies by Alex Kershaw  
Madame Fourcade's Secret War: The Daring Young Woman Who Led France's Largest Spy Network Against Hitler by Lynne Olson  
How to Be a Spy: The WWII SOE Training Manual   
Nancy Wake: The White Mouse (autobiography)  
The War documentary series by Ken Burns
> 
> And, truthfully, a LOT of Wikipedia. Especially the page about Nazi ranks and insignia which stayed open in a tab for over 6 months.
> 
> Yes, I left the door open for a sequel. I deeply love these characters and will surely write them again. For now, I have professional projects I need to focus on, but keep an eye out!! 
> 
> I have a tumblr, velvet-waltz, where I'll post more extensive notes for the nerds who like that kind of thing. Feel free to ask questions there, needle me for info on what happened to who, etc. Again, thank you!!!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Nightlife](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23391397) by [Velichorr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Velichorr/pseuds/Velichorr)
  * [In My Life](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23453320) by [Velichorr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Velichorr/pseuds/Velichorr)
  * [Bridge Over Troubled Water and Other Stories](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23833870) by [Velichorr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Velichorr/pseuds/Velichorr)


End file.
